#Maybe you do and you’re just a dramatic attention seeking idiot pretending to be feeling sad and shit out of some misplaced sense of arroga

[itsahotsecondafter]

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[wincore]

moonlight child | jung yoonoh

pairing: jaehyun x reader

words: 7.5k

genre: prince!au, fantasy, medieval, fluff

warnings: there’s some uhhhhh pining

a/n: this is my first fic after a while and it might be a little rusty but i hope it’s still fun to read ^^ 

There are times when you might as well believe the rumours surrounding the prince, and there are times you think the kingdom doesn’t know their prince at all.

The first time you met Jung Jaehyun, under the autumn sunlight, it was probably a strange way to meet the prince. No older than nine, you had invested in your first crime of sneaking into the royal garden. The school was supposed to take you the day after on a tour anyway, but you’d miss the fun of climbing a tree and tumbling over a hedge to get your illicit joy. The first time you met Jung Jaehyun, he still had baby fat on his cheeks, he was half inside a pile of autumn leaves and his ears were strangely red after being stumbled upon by an unexpected visitor.

He had stared at you with mute horror and a dash of rose across his cheeks that afternoon. The prince succumbing to the urge of jumping into a pile of leaves? Now that’s something hilarious the town kids would love to hear about. He had stammered his words into what was supposed to be threatening, although you only remember a meek ‘don’t laugh at me’, and the day was sunnier all of a sudden.

It’s not like you had any reason to be there either, but you momentarily forgot the legality of your actions.

“It’s fun, isn’t it?” you said with a laugh.

The prince stood there frozen up until you came closer and jumped in too, sending the rest of the leaves flying everywhere.

“Who- who are you?” The prince manged to ask. “You’re not supposed to be here, you know.”

You scoffed. “Why can’t I? The earth belongs to me!”

“Well, that…doesn’t…make a lot of sense,” he responded, his voice still quiet. “Are you a God?”

“No, I’m not. But we can pretend I am.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s okay, it takes time to understand.”

It took you a while to understand too why Jaehyun couldn’t come play with you. Ah, but you compromised. If Jaehyun couldn’t come play with you, you’d just go and play with him.

Now that you think about it, he’s a little bit of an idiot sometimes—but more importantly, he’s a decisively good person. You don’t get to see him often these days but he smiles as kind as ever with every greeting to man, woman and child in the city as he walks through the streets. You know he’d rather walk the empty streets at night, though. But he’s a prince—and a prince loved by all, at that. It’s impossible to not see a perfect child of the universe.

You smile thinking of him. Even when he sneaks out at your demands, he says there wasn’t anything important, that he’s a prince, not a God. He’s never blamed you for the scolding or the punishments he’s received for running away. It’s good to have a best friend but a friend locked in castle walls? Times get difficult.

You sigh. There’s work to do and you’re not the only one daydreaming of the prince in this kingdom.

The prince who they say is the handsomest of all kingdoms with moonlight kissing his skin, the prince who is blessed with refined words and the grace of Heaven, the centre of attention in any ballroom or meeting room, the prince who they say has rejected countless marriage proposals from far, holding onto his own dreams for the kingdom. You cringe at the wildly exaggerated rumours. You believe he can’t possibly have a say in those matters but what do you know the troubles of the rich and the royal?

You can’t deny the rumours around Jaehyun talk of him as some sort of hero, though. You ought to let everyone know, you did the heroism back in the days.

You shake your head. Forget the memories for now.

Working at an orphanage isn’t ideal for pay, but boy, do you have fun here. Everyone grows up and they suddenly forget the forests they played hide and seek in, the apples they stole from their neighbour, the freedom of a run. The children here are more than cheerful, even the older kids, unafraid of never finding a family. In a way, you’re already a sort of family (although, when it comes to Jisung and Chenle, it’s more like you’ve adopted two demons).

“The palace?” you grimace, thinking about all the workers you’ve encountered sneaking in. “They’re a bunch of snobs. Why would anyone work there?”

“Oh, but think about it,” Jinhee continues, “I heard the staff there don’t have to work more than three hours a day…and they get the weekend off.”

The laundry room of the orphanage is a little stuffy when there are more than three people inside. You adjust your collar absentmindedly, your eyes traveling to the windows that give you a clear view of the castle.

To call it just a castle is an understatement. The beauty of it is unique in its own; navy blue tops and purple flags lined with golden ink dancing in the wind, the bricks making up a structure so gorgeous you forget the simple material it’s made of. The castle is especially beautiful against coffee skies, pleasant to look at on your way back home to the top of the short hill. In a way, it’s just like the prince, with his face blessed by the Gods and an inside no one seems to figure out.

“No way,” you reply, “That huge old thing needs to be dusted every day. No wonder they hire so many. Sounds like such a chore.”

Jinhee rolls her eyes. “They’re hiring again next week. I’m thinking of joining.”

You pause to let the words sink in.

“What?!” Your voice calls for the attention of some other orphanage workers, who aren’t too happy at the disturbance. After two or three glares, they leave with the rest of the laundry, you and Jinhee alone again.

“Don’t yell!” she lowers her voice a notch.

“What do you mean you’re joining? You’re leaving?”

“Not quite…I’m trying for a part-time during the weekends.”

“Jinhee,” you frown, “I can’t believe you’d betray us like that.”

“Oh, stop being dramatic,” she retorts, “Besides, I could do with a better pay.”

Well, if she wanted better pay, she could always go back to the Black Dragon’s Inn. You remember all the fun you had working there, and although the innkeeper was a man of many strange habits, it was a lovely place to work in, atop one of the small hills surrounding the city. No wonder the wealthiest come to stay there, and of course, your wage there had been the highest ever. You’d find any excuse to work in such a place again, if it weren’t for the joy of the orphanage.

However, life is a little bit more complicated than you’d think.

“Me? What are you, an idiot?”

“Oh come on, (name),” Jinhee pleads, “Just for tomorrow. Or maybe a week.”

“Identity theft is illegal.”

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not like you’ve never done anything illegal.”

“I am a saint. I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Thanks for saying that. I actually keep a list. When we were eleven—”

“Okay, so I just have to pretend to be you and join, right?”

“Yep. You’re the best, (name). Thanks!”

You kick the stone by the entrance, the iron gates glimmering under the sunlight. You never thought you’d ever come inside the place through the front gates. The only time you’ve ever seen the inside is when you were teenagers. You had climbed into Jaehyun’s room in the middle of the night while he studied his books for the upcoming exams set specifically for him. You figured he could use some company. You’d been amazed by his room in itself, warm yet grand—you could fit at least five people here—and you wondered what the rest of the castle could be like. Looks like you’ll finally find out.

You feel the walk from the gate to the actual palace should not be this long, but the rich think differently, of course. The front gardens are just as pretty albeit small compared to the royal back gardens, with a certain shine to them from the direct noon sunlight. The bushes grow lush, with bright flowers and they’re trimmed to perfection, undoubtedly by some old obsessive gardener. You laugh at your own thoughts. There’s no way you’re going to have a great time today, so you might as well stock up on strength.

The interior removes the smile from your face. Rich people really do live differently.

Posh had been an understatement for this monstrosity of a palace. As rich in colour as the outside walls are, the interior is pale white marble with gold statues resting on display along the sides of the hall, pillars crafted into stories and myths of old. The ceiling is well above reach of even the tallest giants, decorated by glistening chandeliers, not very useful at this time of the day. The heels of your shoes make an unfamiliar clicking sound over the marble floor as you move forward. It’s a little chilly—these walls don’t seem to know warmth. You can’t believe Jaehyun lives here.

The end of the hallway is too far to scrutinise and the staircase on the left is wide enough to fit an artillery. The windows are on the right, taking up almost the entirety of the wall as they let in sunlight lest the place gets too stuffy. And certainly, you can’t forget the people. Jinhee wasn’t joking when she said half the townsfolk probably work here. This hallway must take up most of the energy of the cleaners.

“You must be one of the new recruits,” a lady snaps you out of your daze. Her dark blue gown is broken with a gold-strung beige hem near the neck. She keeps her head high, dark hair pinned into a bun, and her back straight—a lady, like royalty must be. She’s only the head of the cleaning staff, though, and you wonder if everyone here has been poisoned with pretentious dignity. You remember to keep your mouth shut while she gives you and the rest of the recruits the instructions to be followed.

You’re overjoyed to find your assignment to be on the first floor—anything but the main hallway sounds good to you. But the first floor isn’t exactly small either. You look around the myriad of chambers, trying to keep up with the rest of the recruits and working as efficiently as you can. It’s only a while, you remind yourself. Jinhee better treat you lavishly for this favour.

“And what’s this place supposed to be?” you mutter to yourself, approaching the surprisingly regular-sized doors of a room.

The painting of a woman in grey holding the moon in a glass container stares down at you from the doors, her parted lips as though twitching into a frown. Even the paintings here don’t welcome you, you think with a grimace. Since you had so diligently completed the dusting and sweeping of the sunroom, you had now been assigned yet another work. What happened to life being easy in the palace?

You push open the doors, rather heavy for what they look like and reel at the darkness. The curtains are drawn to choke out all sunlight, and there seems to be no one around. The feeling held by the room is something akin to one you’d find in a graveyard; souls held captive in slabs of stone, lives unheard and unlived. Perhaps you were assigned the wrong room. (You hope you were assigned the wrong room.)

You take a look around at the furniture—the room itself isn’t very big, but the shelves are fully packed with books, and the chairs are neatly arranged around the centre table, all furniture made of rosewood. There’s a giant harp at one corner, undoubtedly collecting dust for a while now. Perhaps the cleaners aren’t allowed to touch that one.

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupts your thoughts.

You turn around towards the doorway, your heart already leapt to your throat. When your eyes meet, you realize yet again how different Jaehyun looks in formal attire. Jung Jaehyun has a funny way of captivating anyone who looks at him. His eyes are the shape of almonds, your favourite during summer. His lips are soft and pursed, his features sharp and daunting and if anything, he looks as displeased as his polite disposition allows before he realizes it’s you. The royal coat accentuates his figure and he stands tall, and while you were feeling small in this castle, the prince restores part of your spirits with his presence. You turn red as he stares at you a little too long.

“Why are you here?” he whispers, quickly closing the door behind him.

“Cleaning staff,” you say. “I decided to help you royal lot out and show you how real cleaning is done.”

“No, really.” Jaehyun breaks into a smile. “Seeing your face inside this place feels different.”

“And I’ve already had enough of this place, “ you huff. “This place is way too perfect to be perfect.”

“I have no idea what means,” he says.

“You never do,” you complain. “Imperfections are what make things perfect!”

Jaehyun shakes his head. “Get on with your work. You want to go home, don’t you?”

“Don’t you shoo me away, Jung Jaehyun!”

Jaehyun laughs again, moving to grab a book and sit in his chair.

Your eyes can’t help but trail to him as you dust the shelves. The sunlight hits his face just right, his complexion warm and bright without a single flaw. His hair looks almost brown, a colour you think suits him well while his cheeks are a little rosy. The changing seasons might end up giving him the flu, you think as he sniffs twice. Despite all that, he looks like a noble. He sits leaned back, his shoulders straight and broad and his face so regal when he’s deeply focused. He holds the book at an arm’s distance, atop his crossed legs as the other hand only moves to turn the pages. There are only few moments that make you realize that your friend is indeed a prince, as royal as they come.

You realize that somewhere, somehow, that the boy who told you the names of all the plants in the garden, played tag with you on warm, windy afternoons, had grown up.

Jaehyun massages his temples, sitting alone in his private library. You could hardly call it a library, but he likes to refer to it as something of its own. It’s like his own little bubble of books and tranquillity. He doesn’t like people coming in here.

Something must have gone wrong in the heavens to make him a prince. The life of a townsperson—no, the life of someone ordinary by birth makes it so much more extraordinary for him to live. He’s not one to complain but there are days princes get tired.

Jaehyun catches a glimpse of you, almost smiling to himself. If you weren’t there, he wonders what he would have been. Would he breathe normally? Ever feel his heart beat? He wonders if you know what it’s like, to be alive and not at the same time. He wonders if he could tell you now; if he could ask to hold you, even if it’s just for a few moments. He almost blushes. The book is right in front of him yet there seem to be no words. He feels embarrassed for acting like such a lovestruck schoolboy.

Jaehyun heaves a sigh, his frown etching deeper. It’s not like you and him could ever be, as a prince and a pauper. It’s not like you’ll agree to the snobbish royalty you hate so much.

Jaehyun sighs. If a prince could truly have everything in the world, fairy tales would be true.

No, there has to be so much more than this.

For now, Jaehyun will stick to pretending he has more than what he really has. The funny thing about a job to be done is that it’s always half done when he actually decides to do it. He stands up to get to the shelf, dragging his finger across the spines of the books, the titles printed onto his brain by now.

It takes a while to feel the words. You see, when you read something over and over, you forget that the words are more than ink, that they really mean something. Jaehyun has read this one maybe a hundred times, maybe more. He hated this collection as a child, but it’s grown to be comforting.

A knock on the door startles him out of his comfort.

“Yes?” He finds his voice after a short delay.

You pop your face in, a playful smile on your face. When did you even leave? He smiles back.

“Good evening, Your Highness,” you start, your voice as snooty as possible, “Pardon me, but I’m supposed to ensure this room’s cleanliness, especially if you’re going to be…uh, spending a lot of time here.”

Jaehyun raises an eyebrow. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, I just wanted to make fun of the Head of Staff.”

Jaehyun cracks a smile. “Okay, Mistress Blue, just get on with it.”

He watches you scurry around, your cleaning quick and the quiet humming to yourself sweeter than he gets to hear. He looks at you till you suddenly stop and he looks back at his book at lightning speed, immediately flustered. Was he staring? That’s incredibly careless of him.

Jaehyun peeks back at you, finding your hand holding a book, a smile on your face. Jaehyun smiles again too but he stops. He can’t be swayed that easily, can he?

He looks at you for a few moments before turning away, heart bubbling with anything but peace. How is a prince so easily disturbed, he thinks, frowning into his palm as he leans forward. It’s been a rather pensive day for him.

He gets up, adjusting his coat. He might as well retire to his bedchamber at this hour. He turns his head to find you, heart suddenly stopping. You’re dusting the higher shelves, your hand barely reaching, yet your face so determined with your set jaw and focused eyes. He wants to help, but there’s something about the way you’re posed, maybe the line of your back or the expression on your face that’s so painfully stunning. You smell of honeysuckle, flowers he planted in his garden after he took your advice (“They’re quite lovely. They grow wild near the river.” “Ah, is that so?”).

Jaehyun shakes his head.

“Let me get that for you,” he says, startling you as he takes the cloth from your hands and dusts off the top shelves.

“The prince doing cleaning?” you frown. “Mistress Blue will have my head.”

“It’s not like you’re getting the job done,” he responds.

You cross your arms. “Well, while you’re at it, fetch me a glass of water, will you?”

Jaehyun laughs. The days are getting longer in the castle.

Jung Jaehyun is still kind and sweet, and his cheeks are still dimpled. He might be a prince, but those things don’t change.

You clutch the cloth close to you as you look at the crown prince petting the horse in the stable, the animal far calmer than with you.

“Night Blossom hates being around people,” he says, his tone concerned. “I’m really sorry about this. I hope you’re not injured.”

Gods, why is he apologizing to you? The manners never leave, do they?

“Of course not!” You shake your head rapidly. “I was just surprised, that’s all. I forgot how feisty she was.”

Jaehyun smiles cheekily before leaning in. “Just like you,” he whispers, laughing when he stands back straight. You must be looking like a fool, with your cheeks radiating heat.

When did he learn to tease? It used to be just you.

You shake your head and continue walking, till you can finally look up when his back is turned to you. He looks responsible, steady, and although he’s always been an obedient child, there’s some weariness of adulthood seeped into him now. He jokes with you, but there always seems to be something on his mind. You keep your thoughts to yourself.

“Why are you here?”

“Wh…” You stop yourself when you notice the page boy in front of Jaehyun. His voice is so gentle, you wouldn’t notice he was reprimanding someone.

“You’re supposed to be in training,” Jaehyun scolds, his voice anything but angry, “Go on. You have to be there till lunchtime.”

The boy nods reluctantly, turning around with a softer frown on his face.

“The younger kids really hate training, huh?” you mutter.

“I hated training too when I was his age.”

“I know.” You take a sharp breath. “You kept crying the entire evening every time you had training.”

Jaehyun turns red. “Well, the training wasn’t… half as bad as Commander Jiu’s words.”

You nod. “I remember that too.”

Jaehyun pauses, a faraway look in his eyes as he smiles.

“Everything is hard to do the first time.”

You had said that as Jaehyun sat in front of you, too worn out to do any more playfighting with you. He was as sulky as he allowed himself to be, your hand awkwardly patting his back as you figured out a way to cheer him up.

What did she even say? You think, but you keep the words to yourself. It’s best not to remind him.

You can take a guess, though. Your friend has always been too kind to stand up as a soldier. But he’s not half as bad at evading your attacks. You could advise him but you stuck to presenting him a blueish flower you found near the waterfall that you thought was pretty.

“For me?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you responded, “You like flowers, don’t you?”

He blushes. “I like my garden, yes. It’s peaceful here.”

He cheered up quickly by evening and soon, you’d managed to make him laugh as you ran from the castle guards when they found you climbing over the wall. Jaehyun has always been merciful with a sword.

The way he looks now, though, you can’t imagine he’d be poor with a blade. You blush at the inappropriate thought flickering in your head for a moment.

Jaehyun smiles the same, dimples deep as ever—handsomer even. His voice is no longer that of a boy’s, and he sounds and looks like a man. However, he still talks like a boy sometimes, words you’ve missed hearing from him, with the familiar silence accompanying occasionally. Jaehyun hasn’t changed too much in manners or personality either.

And yet, something’s lost. He’s grown up but he’s not what he dreamed of being, you think.

When you were children, you used to sneak him out of the palace and take him all the way to the river surrounding the kingdom. He told you it’s one of the reasons the kingdom is so safe; there’s no way to enter without the bridge. You thought it was much more than that, it’s waters shining an ancient blue, something playful, something mysterious in them. You grew up with the stories of the water spirits and how they borrowed a stream of River Nami to protect this piece of land.

There used be a beloved king who lived here. When the invaders arrived and hope grew weak, his prayers for his people were heard at a cost and a ring of water encased this city. Old witches’ tales or not, Jaehyun enjoyed it just as much as you did as you sat by the edge of the waterfall spotting a few rainbow trout and enthusiastic frogs here and there, the call of birds tranquilizing. If the river didn’t protect you, the cliffs were there to help.

“So that’s why we celebrate the water festival?” Jaehyun asked.

“I don’t know about the king,” you answered, “But it’s for the water spirits. My mother says they’re kind creatures and we must always repay kindness.”

There was a short pause.

“Do you think I’m related to that king?” he asked.

“You could be,” you said, your eyes suddenly widening, “Do you think you can summon the river spirits? We should try it!”

He shook his head with a shy smile when you jumped at the idea. It was an exciting thought after all, but he never agreed to it. And eventually, you grew up.

There’s no doubt why they call this the kingdom of endless blue. The skies and the river join hands, an agreement made in old times. You’re far too dazed by the sunlight once your work at the stables is done.

“I think Night Blossom has taken a liking to you.”

You jump at Jaehyun’s voice, too lost in your thoughts.

“I cleaned her muddy hide, she better be.”

He laughs, his eyes crescents and dimples deepening. There’s a short pause as you lean back against the wooden walls.

“You’ll be there for the celebration then?” Jaehyun asks.

“The celebration?”

“The night of the water festival?”

“Oh. That’s not for two months, Jaehyun,” you laugh.

“Yeah.” He scratches the back of his head, smiling. “I was checking if you remember.”

The parades are fun, starting from the heart of the city towards the river. The food sellers hold special delicacies and the music is played by skilled musicians, music sweet enough to summon the tides. You don’t know much about the celebrations held within the castle walls but you’ve heard the King and Queen pray to the water spirits for health and prosperity, family and love.

“I don’t like praying alone at the altar,” he says, “I’d rather everyone pray with me for their own causes.”

You laugh. “I don’t suppose I’m royal enough to summon water spirits but I’ll try coming.”

Jaehyun laughs along with you as you exit and for a moment, just a moment, you want to tell him your feelings without regret.

Jaehyun sighs once he’s inside his bedroom. His heart almost gave him away in the morning. He smiles to himself thinking of your face under the sunlight, hair shimmering and eyes bright. It’s not fair. He can’t even stare without getting shy. It’s the first time in years he’s lost confidence so easily. It’s not like him.

There’s no way this could work. It’s a cruel joke life has played on him, and he let it happen.

There used to be a time, you told him, of valiant knights and powerful mages, creatures of light and dark battling for centuries. You spoke as though you knew them, as though you were the main character, the knight and the mage and the strong. You were strong and you taught him the same. So why does he lose his strength with you?

Jaehyun sighs again, now into his pillow, the air cool against his bare back. Autumn nights are the worst, he thinks. But he has promises to keep and work to get to. With that numbing thought, he lets himself drift off.

You sit with Jaehyun at the library again, spending your short break wisely. The afternoon warmth has seeped further into the room once you insisted on keeping the curtains pulled. It’s much better this way, you think.

You talk of the terrible chores you have to do at the orphanage, how it’s even harder with the kids hanging on your every movement. Jaehyun listens intently; life outside the castle has always been interesting to him. You think he should come visit sometimes.

“You love the kids, don’t you? Don’t lie—I know you like someone when you call them a rascal,” Jaehyun says, smiling through his eyes as he rests his face on his palm.

You roll your eyes. “I’ve never called you a rascal.”

“Does that mean I’m special?”

“Don’t get too ahead of yourself just because you’re a prince,” you sneer.

Jaehyun laughs, his voice heavenly. It’s no wonder all the girls in the city dream of this fairy tale prince. You curse yourself for thinking the same. You’re a friend, nothing else.

“You prepared for the water festival?” you smile. “Heard you have a big speech coming up.”

Jaehyun’s smile falls and you think you said something wrong.

“Yeah,” he says, voice strained as he gulps, looking away.

There’s a quiet moment before you interrupt it.

“I think you’ll do just fine,” you say, your voice soft.

Jaehyun looks at you for a moment with no particular expression before he looks away, his ears tinted red and a smile on his face as he scratches the back of his head.

“Thank you,” he says, not meeting your eyes.

You lean in to press a kiss on his cheeks, ignoring the warmth on yours. You finally succumbed to the raging impulse to press a kiss against those dimpled cheeks. This is perfectly fine between friends, isn’t it? Is it? Are you thinking too much? Or thinking too less?

“Good luck,” you say before you leave hurriedly, far too many terrifying thoughts filling your leave. When you sneak a look before shutting the door, you swear Jaehyun’s ears have turned a few shades brighter.

How did a kiss on the cheek rid you of your soul so easily?

“So now you’re doing it willingly?” Jinhee taps her foot against the pavement. The water festival began at the dawn and the parade starts mid-afternoon. The two of you stand in the shadows between two buildings, the prince yet to arrive to lead the parade.

“What?” you feign innocence. You can’t lie you’ve found the castle more enjoyable than you thought. Your mind strays to Jaehyun sitting by the library window, his face focused and serene. Your heart hammers and you shake yourself internally.

“You complained for at least an hour before I could convince you to work in the palace in my stead.”

“I…uh, think the horses have taken a liking to me. It would be rude to leave them like this.”

Jinhee smiles. “Just the horses, or someone else?”

You elbow her, shaking your head and leaving the alley to join the parade. She trails behind you, yelling a rather atrocious ‘You can’t hide from me!’

It takes an hour and a half to get the full preparations ready. The prince arrives in full armour, his sacrificial sword ready to be left to the tides. The river not only stands for kindness but for protection. The crowd never visits the waterfall, to your strange relief, just the widest part of the river, which trails northward to join the mother river. The waterfall is the most serene part and must be left undisturbed, the elders said. You never listened. And through years, it’s become your own. You’d hate for anyone but Jaehyun to be there with you.

Your eyes find the prince’s and he smiles, wider than the one he gives the crowd. Ah, the prince never forgets to smile, does he? You carry your own basket of goods to offer the knights water and napkins and some bread. It’s a lot longer than the path to the waterfall. This should be Jinhee’s work, but she’s better off at the orphanage with a recovering ankle.

You used to try and keep up with the knights when you were a kid, jogging and running and occasionally crashing into the blue cloaks of the commanders. You used to dream of joining them, and you would have were it not for the crushing debt your parents had left you. Now you walk at a distance from them, coming forward when they require anything.

You frown for the first time in a while.

The maven of the strings follows the knights, her music otherworldly and her fingers nimble upon her instrument. It’s a pity other kingdoms don’t get to see this often—your festival has to be the most celebrated one of the lands.

Once you reach, the maven begins her melodious chant in the ancient tongue, the blue and gold of her gown pronounced by the river and the sunlight. The music accompanies and it’s almost like a lullaby, the message to the river spirits.

And then the prince talks.

No wonder the rumours afloat talk of him as a creature of another realm. He moves with elegance, his words that sound sweet yet firm, and of course, his face of royalty and beauty. He’s come prepared, you think, even better than you hoped. You almost forget the ten year old boy, the boy afraid of things outside safety.

The musicians play a tune of love and respite, something soft for weary travellers to enjoy. It doesn’t heal you.

It takes you ten more minutes to feel sick, thoughts spiralling out of control. You can’t call yourself the hero of your story, can you? You have given up control for just a bite of peace and now, you don’t have the courage you used to. You settled for stability and forgot the rush of adventure, the call of sirens. You can’t even gather enough courage to face the boy you’re in love with, tell him the truth. You sit by the river, the rest of the villagers camped out till they regain their energy to walk back. The air is cool, the breeze strangely slow. It saddens you, the way you’ve changed into this nothingness.

And then, something snaps. Something little, but it breaks nonetheless.

You need to do something impulsive immediately. Your mother always said spirits seem to possess you at random hours of the day. Well, she’s not wrong—she just got the wrong kind of spirits.

“Hey.”

You look up to find Jaehyun, his armor off and the strings of his beige shirt neatly done underneath the coffee colored sweater. He looks tired, but you wouldn’t notice unless you knew the way his eyes usually shine. You move to give him space and he maintains a respectful distance, crossing his legs and relaxing his back.

“You spoke well,” you say, “I mean, I told you you’d do well.”

Jaehyun’s ears turn red again. “Thanks.”

There’s a long pause. You refuse to think of the cheek kiss and warmth of his face.

“Jaehyun.”

“Yes?”

You pause. “Remember when we used to run away to the waterfalls?”

Jaehyun furrows his eyebrows. “Yes?”

You grin. “Let’s go.”

“I’m sorry?”

You sigh. “It’s not fun here, is it?”

He hesitates.

“I can’t leave the parade like this. They… need me to lead them.”

“Ah, but do they? You think they can’t walk back on their own?”

Jaehyun falls silent. You can already feel the tingling of chaos in your stomach. You lean in, his eyes following your lips as they move.

“Shall we run away then? For old times’ sake?”

“To where?”

“You know where.”

You share a soft smile and you know he’s agreed.

Jaehyun takes a look around and you delve back into the forests together, the smiles and the songs of the trees consuming you whole.

It takes you a while to get to the waterfall. You don’t lose your way, the paths coming to you in flashes of childhood runaway dreams. There used to be song of fairies resonant throughout the forest—notes on a piano and the chiming of bells. You learnt it in school, but you’ve long forgotten now. The forest makes you nostalgic for it. Your walking lowers in pace once you smell the familiar wild honeysuckles. Your hand strays to Jaehyun’s but you don’t let them touch, your face getting hotter with each step. What happened to courage?

The smell gets stronger; Jaehyun smiles when you see the realization on his face. You still contemplate holding his hand. Is it inappropriate? Friends can hold hands, can’t they? You used to take his hand and guide him to this place (or, rather yank him here). What’s changed now? You see your friend, the face grown and more mature now—handsome, his eyes, lips and jaw almost ethereal. It makes your heart flip upside down.

Jaehyun takes your hand when you reach the clearing before the waterfall, your cheeks flaring the moment you feel the touch. That should have been your move, you think. You’re not a coward.

But you let him lead you this time, certain softness in the way he intertwines your fingers with his.

The sound of rushing water fills your ears and you run ahead to reminisce the same old spot you used to sit at. The rock juts out still, the flat surface perfect to rest on.

“I’m not getting my clothes wet,” Jaehyun says, carefully skipping over the rocks to reach the larger one.

“Really now?”

“Don’t do that.”

Before he can finish, the water hits him with a splash, a smile making its way on his face nonetheless.

“I told you to not do that,” he says.

“What are you gonna d- oh no.”

The water hits you this time, your face and shoulders drenched. You narrow your eyes at him.

“What?” he laughs. “You could have moved.”

“Jaehyun, I will have my revenge.”

“You can’t say that to the prince.” He laughs again.

“Oh? Can I do this Your Highness then?”

The obscene gesture of your hand makes Jaehyun roll his eyes but he makes space for you on the rock once you reach.

“I wish it would always be like this,” you say, your voice breaking. The afternoon sun sits high above. “I wish we could run away whenever we want.”

“Me too,” Jaehyun sighs. “Sometimes I wish I could leave the city, till everyone forgot me.”

You scoff. “No one could forget you. Have you seen yourself?”

“Is that all I have?” He turns to face you, a sorrowful look in his eyes.

There’s silence.

“If you know yourself, you’d know there’s more.” Your voice is quiet, almost a whisper.

The birds and the water take charge of the sounds after, filling any silence to be. The place hasn’t changed since. Nature has her own secrets of timelessness—the boulders rising from the waters in patterns mimicking a sky of stars, the waterfall hushing the two of you in your harmony. When you were younger, you used to call yourself the knight in shining armour and you blush when you think Jaehyun let you do all those silly things you did. You wonder if he thinks of them now and laughs again.

The two of you have grown up but in a way, you’ve stayed the same.

“Jaehyun?” you call.

“Yes?”

You falter.

Jaehyun turns his head to face you. The two of you sit atop the largest rock, flat enough to lie on but a little too cold for fall. His hair sticks up in strange ways, the wind having had its fun with him and his lips are a little chapped but they’re still as pink as ever. He sits with his leg stretched out, torso balanced by his arms. He looks relaxed.

“Do you think there could be more than this kingdom?”

Jaehyun laughs, sitting up. “Well, of course there is! There’s the winter kingdom of the north, the southern kingdom of dragons—”

“No! I mean…Do you ever think living inside here is a chore?”

Jaehyun doesn’t blink.

“Sometimes,” he answers.

There’s another pause.

“Sometimes I think I do everything wrong,” he confesses, lips pressed into a thin line after.

You scoff. “Oh please. You? You’d never do anything wrong in a hundred lifetimes.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“Only if you think I am.”

Jaehyun holds your stare and you feel compelled to look away; there are things better left unsaid that are begging to spill out.

“So you don’t think I can be wrong?” Jaehyun whispers, a frown on his clean-cut face as he furrows his brows.

“Oh, I think you’re incredibly wrong most of the time.” You grow impatient of all this indirect talk.

Jaehyun laughs, more full of disdain. It’s not something he shows often.

“You want me to tell you everything I think of you then?” you retort.

“Yes.”

I am so fucking in love with you, idiot.

“You never fight for things, Jaehyun,” you say, your voice sharp, “You never do things against the rules. You never do things out of pace. You’re never impulsive or—”

Jaehyun leans in to press his lips against yours, taking you by surprise. They’re soft, warm and you melt into it, your senses leaving you momentarily. You rest your palms against his chest, his arms on either side of you. He pulls back when you don’t respond, face and ears tinged cherry red as he looks away.

“I’m so sorry. I should have asked—“

“I liked that.”

You pull him by the collar to meet your lips with his once more, the sweet sound of flowing water drowning out every other feeling. You kiss once, twice, thrice till you outgrow the shyness, till you remember each other completely. You’ve seen the moonlight dance in Jaehyun’s eyes before, a sort of perfection that doesn’t come with royalty. But tonight, as  you walked back hand in hand through the sleepy streets, the moon has never smiled more upon the city.

Jaehyun feels as though he’s been tricked, except in the sweetest way possible.

It’s not like he’d been looking for love. He’s a prince—possibly the worst occupation anyone can look for in terms of free time. And he’s not one to believe in fairy tales of love and princes and knights in shining armour. He’s not one to fall headfirst into something.

But you marched right into his heart the way you walked into the castle gardens that day. The nerve you had, Jaehyun thinks. How could he fall so easily? His ears turn warm the further he thinks of you—your fingers nimble on his skin, your lips that fit perfectly against his.

Jaehyun doesn’t know if it’s the first time he’s been in love. All he remembers is this feeling blooming in lost dreams of honeysuckles on the other side of the kingdom and a childhood friend he couldn’t quite forget the fragrance of. He sighs. He wishes he hadn’t kissed you that evening; perhaps his heart would rest a little.

Of course, his parents had given him a good scolding that night. It was irresponsible, reckless even—but no pungent thought had bothered him till the sun had yawned in the first breath of morning. The people hadn’t noticed—you were right. They hardly do on the return journey. There’s still so much he could learn from you. Royalty isn’t so dreary a burden with you around.

“The Crownguard?” Jaehyun raises an eyebrow.

You nod. “I think I’m better at sword-fighting than wiping windows.”

“You certainly are.” Jaehyun grimaces thinking of all the times you’ve knocked him over on his butt playfighting. You’ve somehow managed to get even better at it, he’s heard. He does not want to face that.

The sunlight drifts into the library to hit your face perfectly, your lips full and pink, easily distracting. You’re lovely, unbelievably so.

“Besides,” you add, shyly, “I might even get to see the winter kingdom of the north and the southern kingdom of dragons.”

Jaehyun smiles, a little daring. “You could do that by my side. Maybe with a crown on your head.”

You turn an incredible shade of red Jaehyun didn’t know was possible. How can you be so cute?

“Isn’t it too early to be proposing?” You cross your arms, the red never leaving your cheeks. “It’s not even impressive enough.”

“If you call thirteen years too early.”

You laugh, the sound the same as years ago. Really, how did you sneak inside so quick? He leans in to press a soft kiss against your lips, enjoying every shade of pink you turn.

“Why’d you do that?!” you speak a note higher, turning your head to check the door. “What if someone sees?”

“You talk as though half the kingdom doesn’t know already.” Jaehyun smiles, ready to lean in for another kiss if you make that face again.

“It’s not my fault Jinhee has a big mouth,” you grumble.

“You’ve met my parents officially, (name). This isn’t exactly a secret—although… I do wish Mom would stop nagging me about…uh… rather inappropriate things.”

You shake your head.

“Approval doesn’t mean I want to make out in front of them,” you quip.

“Shall we try?”

“You’re quite playful today, aren’t you?” you comment. “I remember when I used to be the one making your heart race, Jaehyun.”

You still do.

Jaehyun breaks into a short laughter, yours following. He smells the scent of honeysuckles at night.

Jaehyun is no stranger to the stars in your eyes—but when you look at him with them, it’s like he doesn’t the need the moon anymore.

[tyrantlavellan]

A little Drabble I made for @lindsmorr because I owe her a lot. We miss our disaster sons.

(I know I promised no plot, but I had to think of somethingggggggg 🥺)

The bustling of the infamous Orlais market filled the air. Merchants crowded around the Inquisition company just for a glimpse of the Inquisitor.

Mahanon ignored them, waving his hand to his bodyguards. Inquisition soldiers shoved the crowd aside. He heard Taavi scoff as they made their way through the city, vast buildings with rich architecture and lavish gardens stretched out on either side of them. But Mahanon didn’t pay any attention. His mind was elsewhere.

Divine Victoria was trying everything in her power to lessen his grasp. Trying to change the ways of the Chantry was not going well for her, and with most of her own followers squabbling like over privileged children, she was not getting the support she needed. Her first few months as Divine was not going well. She wished to do what she believed was right, a noble deed Mahanon had to admit.

One that he was inclined to prevent from happening.

What she didn’t know was that he was the reason she was elected the new Divine in the first place. She would have lost her nomination to Leliana, had Mahanon not intervened. He gave himself a pat on the back for that one. The Chantry would have been a chaotic mess if Leliana was chosen.

He encouraged Cassandra to reinstate the Seekers to ensure the circle remained intact and well guarded. He definitely wasn’t taking any chances with the mages. He had seen the catastrophic damage they were capable of too many times.

The Divine might have successfully stripped him of his influence, were it not for the support of the Emperor, forever indebted to Mahanon for replacing Celene, and the majority of the noble houses supporting his title as Herald of Andraste. Mahanon smiled smugly to himself.

“This place reeks of dirty money, selling stuff that is not even worth half their price,” Taavi interrupted. A disgusted look wrinkled his face. “It’s like they dip their shit in gold and call it a fashion statement.”

Mahanon chuckled.

“This is Orlais, anything can be fashion if you’re rich enough, and have a lot of influence.”

“Whole place is a nightmare…” Taavi said, narrowly avoiding a group of chevaliers standing in the middle of the street. “The size of their egos definitely makes up for their lack of size down -”

Trumpets blasted cutting him off.

They made their way into the courtyard of the Chantry, where Divine Victoria awaited them atop a giant flight of stairs. Her rigid expression could make anyone tremble, but Mahanon knew better.

A crowd of Orlesians had amassed behind them and they cheered, singing chantry songs and praising the Herald of Andraste. Mahanon couldn’t help but smirk.

“Stop doing that,” Taavi smacked him.

“Ow! What was that for?” Mahanon shoved him back.

“You look like an idiot, smiling and waving to the crowd like you're some sort of idol.”

“In case you forgot, I did save the world from certain doom. And this is how they like to thank me,” Mahanon said, waving back at the crowd again.

“Oh that’s right. My bad, your highness,” Taavi mocked.

“Well now it’s sounds cringe when you say it,”

“Why did they have to build so many steps? And why is she so cross looking? What did you do to make her upset, we just got here,” Taavi grabbed onto Mahanon’s arm instinctively as they walked past the Seekers. He eyed them suspiciously.

“She is still upset about that whole Empris du Lion situation. Apparently the Chantry doesn’t condone blowing up Chevalier estates, despite blood mage cultists squatting inside,”

“That doesn’t seem very - ”

“I also may have slept with her a bunch and maybe kind of lied about a lot of things to convince her to become the Divine,” Mahanon said quietly, biting his lip.

“Oh, so now that makes more sense. Wait you slept with the Div - ”

“Welcome Inquisitor!” A clergyman yelled so the crowd could hear. “Our beloved Herald of Andraste has descended from his throne to grace us with his presence, may the Maker bless him always and continue to shine his light on all his children!”

The crowd cheered loudly. Mahanon waved, avoiding Taavi’s intensely disapproving gaze.

“Again with the waving, you look like a fool.”

“Why can’t you just have fun with me and let these peasants worship me,” Mahanon said, now blowing kisses to the courtiers.

“You are insufferable.” Taavi sneered under his breath.

“Enough with the attention seeking,” the Divine suddenly cut in, standing right beside them, arms crossed, still unimpressed. “Inside. Now.” She snapped, swiftly walking inside the giant looming doors of the cathedral.

“She seems nice,” said Taavi.

“Just let me do the talking,” Mahanon whispered back. “You just keep your eyes out for anything suspicious.”

Taavi rolled his eyes, but followed Mahanon inside the lavish building.

The Chantry spared no expense in their decorations. Images of Andraste, the Maker, and any other revered patron were scattered on every surface possible. Even the door handles had depictions of Andraste and her followers. The clergyman and the chantry sisters walked around, muttering chants and bowing as they passed.

Mahanon tried not to laugh at Taavi’s horrified expression.

“If I hear someone call me ‘your grace’ one more time…” Taavi hissed.

They entered the Divine’s council chamber. Every seemingly important person in Orlais was already waiting for them.

Josephine had arrived days before them, in an attempt to smooth things over with the council beforehand. She glared at them as they walked in.

“Sorry I’m late,” Mahanon called out, making sure the entirety of the room could hear. “I got lost in this giant labyrinth, so many unnecessary buildings.”

Josie stood in bewilderment as he stopped next to her.

“Inquisitor, glad you could finally make it,” she hissed through her teeth as she forced a smile.

“Glad to be here too, dear Josephine. I’m sure you entertained these people just fine. It is your job after all.” Mahanon said as he patted her head. She stiffened and took a very deep breath and muttered something in Antivan.

“I see things haven’t changed much.” Divine Victoria said, glaring in Mahanon’s direction as she took her seat.

“Hello, Cassandra,” Mahanon smiled at her. She gritted her teeth in disgust.

“She shall be addressed as Divine Victoria, Your Holiness, Most Holy, or the Holy Mother!” a Cleric snapped.

“My apologies,” Mahanon said, bowing out of mockery. “The name hasn’t really stuck so well. She wasn’t quite so ‘holy’ from what I remember.”

“You little -”

“Enough,” the Divine, raised her hand to silence them. “This is getting us nowhere.” She straightened her shoulders, making sure to appear taller, her outrageous hat towering above everyone.

“Inquisitor, despite your blatant lack of respect, we have called you here in an attempt to salvage the relationship between the Inquisition and the Chantry. There have been far too many disputes, and it is in your best interest to help us remain united.”

“I’m not quite sure I follow, Most Holy of Holiness.” He sneered, crossing his arms dramatically. “Last I looked, the Inquisition was doing very well working with the Chantry.”

“What he means to say, Your Excellence,” Josie cut in. “The Inquisition has been successful to maintain and utilize resources graciously donated by the Chantry, in the name of the Maker, of course.”

“I am aware, Ambassador.” Victoria said, nodding in her direction. “The Inquisition has been quick to dive into the Chantry vaults. But I disagree. Your Herald of Andraste has done terrible things, to both friends and enemies of the Inquisition. I cannot pretend you have the Chantry’s interests at heart when he seems to only take what he pleases.

“But what the Inquisitor fails to realize is, the title ‘Herald of Andraste’ can only go so far. Should the Chantry denounce the title of Herald, the Inquisition would not be entitled to anything regarding the Chantry.”

Mahanon snorted loudly.

“Let me see if I remember this correctly,” Mahanon said, clearing his throat. “But was it not one ‘Cassandra Pentaghast’ that insisted on defying Chantry order and encouraged the Inquisition’s inception in the first place?”

“The Chantry was leaderless,” she snapped, hands clenched into tight fists, making her knuckles white. “You cannot compare what happened then to this current situation.

“The Inquisition has done what it was meant to do, which was to stop the immediate threat of Corypheus. You have already done so. In continuing to expand the Inquisition and gain military prowess, you are going against everything that Andraste stood for.”

“So what would you consider the Templars and the Seekers, if not a military extension of the Chantry?” Mahanon argued. “The Inquisition is just more independent with how we function.”

“Not exactly true,” the Divine said coldly, challenging him. “The templars have one purpose, and that is to protect the Circle from threats both inside and out. The Seekers ensure the templars don’t fall out of line.

“The Inquisition has done neither of those things. And as of late it’s hard to say exactly what the purpose of the Inquisition is in its current state.”

Murmurs from the council members crept around the room. Mahanon could feel his face getting hot. But he still had some leverage.

“Perhaps we should ask our beloved Emperor Gaspard,” Mahanon said calmly. Gaspard squirmed in his seat as all eyes fell on him. “I’m sure he would have single handedly kept the country from being torn apart by the Civil War after Celene’s tragic death,” Mahanon eyed Gaspard. He could see the sweat dripping down his face even from where he stood.

“ And Ser Chaplain,” he continued, now staring at a retired Chevalier, one of his most generous donors. “His company would have totally been able to keep mercenaries and Venatori from overtaking his very financially successful mining operations in the Frostbacks.”

The Orlesian noble cleared his throat nervously.

“And of course,” Mahanon continued. “The general population of Thedas would definitely agree with denouncing the very force that saved them from the very demons of the Fade and the remains of the giant tear in the sky that would have ripped the world to pieces.” Mahanon stared the Divine in the eye.

“Because of course every single threat to Thedas died with Corypheus, and no city ever had to be rebuilt, no village ever faced a food shortage or threats from thieves or natural disasters.”

Nobody said a word.

“But I suppose the Inquisition doesn’t do any of those things either.” Mahanon looked across the room as the council whispered to each other.

The look on the Divine’s face was a mix of pure anger and defeat. Mahanon just smiled smugly. The council continued to whisper for several minutes.

“I feel like the council may lean in our favour,” Josie whispered.

“The Emperor and his bureaucrats owe us too much to not come to our defence.” Mahanon replied. “If the Divine thinks that her way is the only way, she’s going to be very disappointed.”

Finally the Divine raised her hand and the whispering cut off.

“We are calling a recess. We will return in an hour,” she said abruptly. Then she left the room just as quickly.

“Well then,” Josie sighed. “Time for some sightseeing?”

Mahanon turned to leave, but stopped short. Taavi was missing. He immediately became alert. He briskly walked out into the grand hallway, shoving a chantry brother out of the way. He could feel panic rising.

He opened doors, intent on searching the entire building until he heard laughing from a shadowy corner.

“You should see your face just now,” Taavi laughed as he casually walked out of his hiding spot. “Concern is such a cute look for you.”

Mahanon’s face went red. He crossed his arms as Taavi tried to pull him close.

“Whatever,” he scoffed, pushing Taavi away. “I didn’t think you’d ditch me like that.”

“I don’t consider the squabbles of the Chantry to be important, actually,” Taavi retorted. “But what I do find mildly entertaining,” he continued, slowly walking towards Mahanon with a sly look on his face. “Is you, pretending like you don’t care about me, when it’s very much obvious that you do,” Taavi lightly pushed Mahanon against the wall behind him. His towering frame kept him from going anywhere.

“Really, Taavi?” Mahanon said, looking around at the busy traffic going to and fro around the cathedral. “Right now doesn’t seem to be the best time or place for this,”

“Since when do you care about the when and where?” Taavi laughed. He gently turned Mahanon’s head to expose his neck, and kissed him softly, breathing heavily in his ear.

Mahanon felt his body get hot, and closed his eyes as Taavi gently grazed his ear with his teeth.

“I just…don’t…” Mahanon forgot what he was trying to say. “We are in a hallway….”

“You didn’t think I planned ahead? Where did you think I went off to?”

Suddenly Taavi lifted him up, wrapping Mahanon’s legs around his waist, their faces inches away from each other.

“I have you right where I wanted you,” Taavi said with a smirk as he kicked the door they were leaning against open.

He carried Mahanon into a small chapel, only furnished with a few wooden benches and a small altar table. He kicked the door shut behind them.

“Of all the rooms you could have chosen, you picked a closet?” Mahanon scoffed.

“I think it’s some sort of servants’ chapel, actually. Guess the rich don’t like mingling with commoners when it comes to chantry shit,” Taavi plopped Mahanon onto the tiny altar, knocking over Andraste paraphernalia, shattering them on the floor.

“And besides,” he continued. “Most of the servants are busy catering to all the snobby guests, don’t have time to come pray, or whatever they do in here.”

Taavi started kissing and sucking on Mahanon’s neck again, making sure to press their bodies together.

“You know,” Mahanon said quietly, now completely helpless as he could feel Taavis hands slowly unfastening his belt, lingering a bit before disappearing underneath the fabric. “They’re not going to be too pleased if I’m late again.” He bit his lip, trying to hold back a moan.

“Well I guess I better hurry then,” Taavi smirked, working his way down, throwing his own pants behind him.

Mahanon didn’t have time to object before Taavi pushed him onto his back, climbing on top of him. Taavi clasped his hand over Mahanon’s mouth, muffling the sound of him moaning in pleasure as Taavi fucked him.

Whether it was the sacrilegious nature of being absolutely pounded on top a sacred altar, or Taavi wrapping his fingers around Mahanon’s neck as his breath came out in ragged gasps, or more likely the combination of both those things, it did not take long for Taavi to make Mahanon finish.

Taavi squeezed his hand around Mahanon’s delicate neck as he trembled with pleasure, leaving a mess all over his own hands. A few more thrusts and Taavi joined him. Both now breathing heavy, they let the last of the pleasure flow through them. Eyes closed, they lay in silence, both smiling.

“You’re getting too good at that,” Mahanon chuckled, stroking Taavi’s hair.

“What can I say, I’m a natural,” Taavi replied, taking Mahanon’s hand and kissing it gently.

Mahanon sighed, looking around the tiny space. He didn’t think they’d make such a mess in their brief moment, but he laughed as Taavi fished their pants from the other side of the room.

“Better get going, before Divine Victoria decides to go searching for us herself,” Mahanon grumbled, trying to clasp his belt properly. Taavi shook his head.

“I’m getting a headache just thinking about going back to that council disaster,” Taavi rubbed his temples dramatically. “I’m gonna go outside for some fresh air.”

Mahanon just rolled his eyes.

“You’re going to miss all the fun,” he replied. “But if you insist. Perhaps we can go for round two later,” he placed a kiss on Taavis lips.

“Perhaps…” Taavi said quietly. “If you don’t take forever…”

“I’ll show you what I can do later, I just need silk, some candles, and a couple of apples”

“What are the apples for?” Taavi asked, confused.

“Guess you’ll have to find out,” Mahanon teased, pushing the door open and disappearing down the hall with a bit of a spring in his step.

[eights-of-spades]

Offerings 12/06

Rashk Geilt slips inside the run-down building, flicking his tail out from between the door moments before it closes. A bothersome feeling of being watched made him alter his intended course after a long night of socialising, his senses for such much sharper than Quinten’s. He pretends it’s a lovely early morning for prayer while stepping out of the direct line of sight of any who might enter in his wake, mentally going through where he hid the knives under his extravagant attire. None of them are in easy reach when one favours subtlety over a quick draw, but he hopes there won’t be a need to reach for them in the first place.

Eight had been following the extravagantly dressed miqo’te for the better part of the morning into the early afternoon. He was hard to miss, really. Between the mass of hair and the sort of gilded plumage that would look more at home on a stage during a Grand Revue Extravaganza than on the Ruby Road exchange. Perhaps he had gotten lazy, perhaps Rashk was that good, but once the fortune-teller changed direction suddenly for a side street Ma’sae suspected that he had been made somewhere along the way. No matter! The rogue followed anyways, pushing up the fabric he had pulled low over his pale eye with one hand while the other slipped into a fold of his overcoat, seeking out the well-worn handle of a knife as he slipped inside. He winked his dark eye shut, immediately seeking out the drifting motes of aether and which direction they were headed as he stepped into the luxurious shrine. His attention whipped to the left and both eyes opened as he grinned brightly.

Rashk‘s expression is still caught in a look of tension when Eight turns to face him much faster than anticipated and the Keeper’s eyes widen slightly before narrowing. He lets the look evolve into a haughty sort of frown to play off the mood their previous meeting had ended in. “Oh, it’s you,” he says in that tone one might use when discovering a truly unpleasant door-to-door salesperson at their home. “Is the Captain really so desperate to ‘help’ me with my affairs that she must have her underlings interrupt my prayers?” His tone might be lazy, but his gaze isn’t lacking in intensity, flicking down to the other man’s hands as he takes the other’s appearance in, trying to gauge the likelihood that this is, in fact, an assassination attempt.

Eight, rather than looking embarrassed at being ‘made’ by the mysterious miqo’te, beamed in delight instead. He took his hand out of his coat and reached up to remove the turban meant to hide his mismatched eyes and protect the tips of his precious ears from the Ul’dahn midday sun. Nothing worse than sunburnt ears. He rolled the fabric idly as he wandered over in Rashk’s general direction. “Nah, she’d probably yell at me for interrupting you during prayers. If you were really praying. Honestly I expected more of an…” a hand waved casually like he was looking for the word. “Ambush situation. I walk in and a bunch of thugs jumps out. Though, it’s hard to see you putting up with your run of the mill thugs. Maybe well-dressed dandies on hard times or burly bandits crammed into ill-fitting smoking jackets.” He suggested cheerfully, plainly imagining what Rashk’s ‘street gang’ would look like.

Rashk‘s boot scrapes the stone as he moves one foot back like he might’ve been about to take a step back when Eight approaches, but his calf bumps against the bench and he halts the motion, gaze briefly flicking to the side and then returning to the other Keeper. “I think you’ll find that you’re the thug in this scenario and I’m prone to believing that you’re after my coin. The Captain isn’t paying you enough so you’re taking up extracurricular activities, perhaps?” His ears flick, rising only to fall flat against his head again. “Your sort usually do run in packs, don’t they, so you would know what to expect from such scenarios. All out of friends, or are they hiding outside from Nald’thal’s judgement?”

Eight took another step closer. Maybe it was just a pleasant change of pace to be the ‘thug’ rather than the one trying to fast-talk his way out of the corner. “Ohh? I mean, I’m not going to turn you upside down and shake to see what falls out, but donations are always accepted and will grant you repayment plus interest in the afterlife.” He offered cheerfully, taking another small step to see if he could make Rashk trip on the bench he had cornered himself against. “Haven’t you heard? I’m a man of the Gods now, had to give up the gang along with betting on the birds and smoking. So, from one faithful to another,” he teased as he tilted his head to shake some dark hair out of his eyes, the grin tilting to one side jaggedly. “What’s got you so spooked.”

Rashk tenses up but doesn’t take that stumbling step back, feeling the bench against the backs of his legs. He no longer likes his own positioning, forced to mentally create back up plans such as ‘jump through the window’ or ‘throw him through it first’. His mask of haughty disdain is impressive—except for the unspoken language of his tail, the flicking movement of it an anxious shadow behind the hem of Rashk’s dramatic bird coat. “Oh, a reformed villain, that certainly puts my mind at ease,” he can’t help but snipe. “Forgive me for not taking your word for it and seeming ‘spooked’ when strange men from the streets speak to me. Is a donation going to make you leave me be, then?” He says ‘donation’ in a tone that suggests he would’ve considered ‘a bribe to avoid a mugging’ a more appropriate expression for the situation.

Eight‘s own tail swayed back and forth lazily. Plainly amused by the situation. He didn’t step any closer, noting the tense way Rashk held himself as well as the anxious flick of the shorter man’s tail. If he pushed it much further the other may be forced to react. He seemed like the sort to go for the face, too. “It could, but probably not, let’s be honest.” He chuckled and took a step back instead, holding up his empty hands to show he meant no harm. Graciously allowing Rashk to step away from the corner he had wedged himself into. He backed up even further, taking a step onto the offering pool to perch there comfortably. “I actually came here to talk about Quinten. Calling the man an idiot would be an offense to hard-working saps like myself. The guy’s stupid and mean. Dangerous combination, even in the best of situations.”

Rashk absolutely would’ve gone for the face. People rarely managed a smug smirk with a broken nose, not for a few moments at least. His gaze flicks to the raised hands and he watches Eight closely as the other Keeper backs up. Only after he’s near the fountain does Rashk venture from the corner, maintaining a distance even if this doesn’t seem to be progressing to desperate measures anymore. Upon mention of Quinten, he blinks. “I did rather suggest so, didn’t I?” He pauses and there’s something sharper in his gaze now, a barely noticeable narrowing of his eyes like a watered-down version of his previous death glare. “And did you inform him that he’s no longer the first in line to his mother’s fortune once she’s called into Thal’s halls?”

Eight barked out a laugh nearly as crooked as his grin. “Hells no!” He declared brightly. “I don’t know about you, but getting my ribs kicked in by a bunch of inbred, weak-chinned, pig-eyed dandies and their hired muscles isn’t my idea of a good time.” His tail draped over the edge of the pool, hanging over the dry side to flick lightly in amusement before it returned to languid swaying. “Which is to say, that’s very likely going to be your fate when the truth comes out. Have you made any preparations for that eventuality? Vengeance orders, wills, maybe arrangements to get rid of him before it happens. It isn’t fratricide if you pay someone else to do it.”

@rashkgeilt

[megaphonemonday]

my soul is not satisfied

I was told that it was unacceptable to leave forgetting is too long the way it is, and, given the current state of things and my inability to imagine anything but roses and rainbows for these two, I kind of agree. but dear lord work had to go in before we can get there. 

read it on ao3

April

Heads hung and feet shuffled as the San Diego Padres trudged back into the clubhouse after yet another crushing defeat. Captain Mike Lawson brought up the rear.

The team was enjoying a miserable start to the regular season and morale was at an all time low. 

Mike would have to be an idiot not to know he was partially (mostly) responsible for the latter and that the latter had definitely affected the former. While he was definitely an idiot about many things, baseball typically wasn’t one of them.

He’d been at a loss when they first started down this losing streak and, seven games later, still couldn’t quite figure out what to say to pull the team out of its funk. Not when he was in such a rut of his own and had been since the end of Spring Training.

In retrospect, it was something of a miracle that they’d had an okay run in Arizona, coming out of the Cactus League with more wins than losses and a solid 25-man roster. 

Well, 24-man-and-1-woman roster.

Which was his whole problem, wasn’t it? Or at least the lion’s share of it.

(Not that a woman was involved, just which particular woman it was.)

He would’ve killed, or at least done some morally objectionable things, for the chance to lick his wounds in private and not be confronted with Baker’s wounded/confused face everywhere he turned, but Mike’d missed out on making it as an assassin a long time ago. So, he just had to stew in this seething mire of disappointment and jealousy and anger that he knew was entirely irrational. All while having to share a clubhouse and a dugout and what felt like his entire goddamn life with the woman.

(Mike was well aware that it was only his bruised pride that made him wish, even for a moment, that Oscar and Al had decided to send her back down until her arm was back at 100%. But that hadn’t stopped him from thinking it.  

He’d always known he was an asshole, but that thought killed any hope of being the kind of asshole people liked in spite of themselves.)  

“We’ll get ‘em next time,” he said, half-hearted.

Only a few guys nodded back, the rest moodily starting to undress so they could hit the showers. 

Instinctively, he glanced around, hoping someone would look at him, give him a nod that said, “I got your back.” If he was being honest, he even knew who he wanted that person to be, in spite of everything. 

Ginny’d already disappeared into her changing room.

It wasn’t another fucking punch to the gut. 

Not at all.

Later, shivering in his ice bath, he came to terms with a few things. 

1) This was his last season of professional baseball. He’d announced it to the team in Arizona, but hadn’t yet let his agent make a statement to the press. It still didn’t always feel real. 

2) It didn’t matter what fucking shakeups the Front Office went through, Mike was leaving the game a Padre. He would die in this uniform if it came to that.

3) He didn’t want to go out on a low note. Which was going to be something of an uphill battle the way his season was going. It may have been years since he tasted late October air on the field, but he had also never played a first month as bad as this one.

And: 

4) Christ. He was going to have to do something, wasn’t he? For at least the next five months, he was still captain of the Padres. Which meant it was his responsibility to pull his head out of his ass, stop being such a moody son of a bitch, and get the team back on track.

Which.

Mike would love to say that he was being a moody asshole for reasons that had nothing to do with his favorite pitcher, but that would be a god damn lie. 

(And, Christ. Yes, he had a fucking favorite, okay?)

Even if very little remained of what’d made her his favorite in the first place. Ginny didn’t tease or prod or joke, hardly even made eye contact anymore. When he caught for her—only once of her three regular season starts so far—she followed his calls without fail, remained silent any time he decided to make a visit to the mound, her eyes cast to the ground. Mike could feel her cringe away any time he stepped too close and every single fucking time, it made his heart sink into the pit of his stomach.

Not that he didn’t deserve it because— Honestly, he still couldn’t believe it sometimes.

He’d kissed her. 

Drunk and bitter about Rachel leaving him again, he’d kissed her. Probably more than a little bitter about the smiles Ginny was offering to other guys, he’d kissed her. 

Guys she didn’t even know. Who didn’t deserve one shred of her attention. (Not that Mike could relate to that. At all.)

So he’d started needling her because if there was one thing Ginny Baker couldn’t do, it was resist taking the bait.

The whole process of getting from Ginny stomping up to him in the bar, fire in her eyes, to having her sandwiched between the building and his body was still a little fuzzy, even weeks later. Why wouldn’t it be when he couldn’t get the hitch of her breath into his mouth out of his head? Or the way she’d been pressed so sweetly against him, her warmth seeking his?

Mike wanted to live in those few minutes he’d had her in his arms. 

Right up until Ginny flat out told him kissing him was a mistake.

Which shouldn’t have come as such a fucking shock. Honestly, what else had he expected? That she’d be thrilled to make out with some has-been who’d been nothing but awful to her the past few weeks?

It didn’t matter what he’d thought as she sighed into his mouth: that the silver lining of being told it’d take a miracle for him to walk—not crawl or be carried—off the field if he tried for more than this last season had been Ginny and her perfect fucking smile and the way she made him feel. Had been the idea that they could maybe get over the bullshit he’d thrown in their way because that was what he did best. Had been the thought that they might actually make each other happy for all they were viciously effective at the opposite. 

It didn’t matter because Ginny didn’t want that. 

She didn’t want him. 

And that was fine. It had to be fine, even when the sudden memory of that fact sometimes made his knees want to give out more than any stress or strain from playing ever had.

Mike could be the grown up here, not that he’d done much to prove it lately. If it meant going out as a respected and valued member of his team and not the morale-killer he currently was, he could do a lot. Even if that meant locking up the mangled heart that was left to him and pretending he was doing just fine. 

That didn’t mean it wasn’t going to hurt like a motherfucker, though.

So, sitting in a metal tub, freezing his balls off as chunks of ice slowly melted around him, Mike Lawson came to terms with a few things. He came to terms with them and groaned out the one word that adequately encapsulated his situation.

“Fuck.”

May

“Well, Mike,” Oscar said doubtfully, already reaching for the phone in his pocket, “if you’re sure that’s what you want.”

“It is,” he affirmed with a frown. 

Oscar just sighed and excused himself. No doubt to cancel some event in Mike’s honor he’d already put into motion. Mike didn’t even feel that bad. It wasn’t like the GM had asked him beforehand. Then again, Oscar’s track record with actually asking things of Mike wasn’t too hot, either. 

Both Mike and Al watched the man go, but while Mike’s attention remained on the door and clubhouse beyond, the older man’s shifted. Having played for the man for so long, Mike didn’t need to look to confirm Al’s speculative frown. 

And if he didn’t see it, maybe he didn’t have to acknowledge it either.

Roughly, he shoved to his feet. “We done here?” 

He kept his body angled towards the door, though the heavy sigh that preceded Al’s words painted a picture all on its own. Mike may have gotten used to being a disappointment, but it never stopped stinging.

“I suppose so, Mike.”

Without a backwards glance, he walked out of Skip’s office, shoulders tense. He was probably undoing all the work Kiki’d already put into his back today, but he didn’t give a shit. 

He’d just had the worst conversation of his life, and his wife had once told him in excruciating detail exactly why she was leaving him for the pediatric heart surgeon, so he knew bad conversations when he had them.

Suffice it to say, Mike should’ve known going in just how bad it would get. Especially since it was called at the President of Baseball Operation’s request. 

Well. 

Charlie Graham could go fuck himself. Mike didn’t owe that guy a thing, especially when he didn’t even bother to show up to the meeting he’d wanted in the first place. Al, and even Oscar, though, he owed it to them to try and work out a game plan, an exit strategy, even if he was against 95% of what it entailed. 

Mike Lawson’s Goodbye Season. Tickets on sale now.

He snorted, derisive.

He may be retiring at the end of the year, but he didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. He didn’t want the farewell tour or the tributes or the weird fucking gifts from teams he’d spent his career trying to grind into the dirt. All Mike wanted was to play his last season and then disappear into the sunset. Or maybe something marginally less dramatic, but it wasn’t like he fucking knew what he wanted.

(Well, of the things he could have, he didn’t know what he wanted.)

Like the universe heard him and hated him, a bright, distinctive laugh rang through the clubhouse. 

Almost instinctually, Mike turned towards it. A few bad months weren’t enough to erase his reaction to that sound.

Standing in the opening to the round locker room, Mike had a clear view of the whole team. Most everyone was dressed already. With only forty-five minutes to game time, they’d better be. 

But where some guys were hunched in their chairs, headphones on, trying to get into game mode, others took a more laid back approach. 

And though Mike never thought he’d live to see the day, Ginny Baker was one of the latter. 

She lolled in one of the chairs, leg hooked over the armrest, other foot idly spinning the seat back and forth. True, she wasn’t pitching today, and true, she’d already put in her work with her trainers, but it was still strange to see her so relaxed in the clubhouse. Mike tried to rack his memory, recall if he’d ever seen her quite so boneless and content, even when they were at their best, but he came up empty. 

Adding insult to injury was who exactly had her so relaxed. 

Sprawled on one of the couches nearby, Blip grinned, face lit up with what must have been a good joke. Not that Mike had heard many of Blip’s jokes lately. 

While he’d made good inroads with most of the team, bankrolling post-game celebrations and even letting that pack of animals throw a party at his house, there were still some holdouts. 

Blip was the one who hurt the most. 

It sucked that Salvi and Voorhies still weren’t completely sold on Mike’s new attitude—like it didn’t matter that the Padres had clawed their way up from the bottom of the National League in the past few weeks, settling in for a slog to the top if Mike had anything to say about it—but Mike would get over it. They weren’t his best friends. 

That was Blip. 

(That had been Ginny.) 

So, looking at the man who’d been his closest friend for the past four years joking around with Ginny, that stung. 

Not as much as it stung that the third member of their little club was the guy who’d been signed to replace him, though. 

Mike couldn’t care less that Livan was still a little shit who delighted in needling his captain, lording every start over his head like it was another nail in Mike Lawson’s coffin. On a certain level, Mike couldn’t fault him. 

On almost every other level, though...

Bitter barbs of jealousy roiled in his gut. That and the knowledge that he was going to give up the one thing in the world he was good at in the not too distant future. He hadn’t been good at being married or being a son. He’d never done well in school, and his phase two was a bust before he’d even gotten to it. The one thing that Mike had ever loved and managed to keep in his life was baseball and every day/hour/minute/second that ticked by, he could feel it slipping from his grasp. 

All while that fucker was just getting started. 

(To make matters worse, he was just getting started with Ginny.)

Mike would give it up and Livan would take his place. Had already taken his place from the looks of it. 

But where a month or even a few weeks ago Mike would have let all that vitriol spew forth, today he kept it in check. He didn’t interrupt the meeting of the new Best Friends Club, no matter how much he might like to. He stepped into the room, and though he didn’t do anything to temper the thunderous frown on his face, he kept quiet. He didn’t need to look to know that Ginny’s eyes followed him, wary, or that her shoulders crept closer to her ears, waiting for whatever bullshit he was going to throw her way. 

And it was bullshit. 

Mike had known that the minute he started needling her back in Arizona. He was jealous, even though he had Rachel and wanted so desperately to be happy with her. At the beginning, the first day of training, he hadn’t even let himself look at Ginny, too afraid that one glimpse of her would remind him why he found it so hard to just want the woman he’d married. 

Too soon, though, it wasn’t about Rachel at all. It was all about Ginny. Ginny’s laugh and Ginny’s smile. Ginny teasing Livan the way she’d used to tease Mike. 

He’d reacted like a child, jealous of a new sibling getting more attention and desperate to get some back. Mike knew that now and wasn’t proud of it. 

Not that it made much of a difference.

So, determined to show that he was trying to be better—for the team and the fans and even Ginny herself—Mike breathed through the ugly feelings clawing up his throat. He shoved them down into the pit of his stomach where he stored all the shit he didn’t like dealing with—his mom, his dad, his imminent retirement, Rachel, Ginny, the likelihood that he would spend the rest of his life alone...

The list went on.

What was one more item? 

Blowing out a controlled breath, Mike let go of it all. Everything but baseball and the game he wanted, needed, to win was gone. 

Was it healthy? Fuck no. He wasn’t even sure it was sustainable, but Mike was going to hold onto the one thing left to him while he still had it. 

Everything else was gone already. 

Without thinking about it, Mike’s gear bag was slung over his shoulder and he was headed for the dugout, walking away from his friend, his replacement, and his pitcher without a word.

June

It was too much to ask that no one had noticed the gaping chasm between captain Mike Lawson and not-rookie Ginny Baker. But where that kind of distance could maybe be explained away during Spring Training with all the extra players in the mix, during the regular season, it was glaringly obvious. And not just to over-invested fans with a blog and a Twitter account. 

No, this was now being discussed on the Whip Around and SportsCenter. Discussed and analyzed, though thankfully no one managed to hit on the underlying cause of it.

(Bad enough that his team, fans, and sports journalists were all speculating about the apparent feud with his pitcher, it would be fucking mortifying if they knew it was all because he’d been such an asshole that he made the mistake of kissing her; of being deluded enough to think she wanted him to kiss her.)

If he’d bothered to ask, well, anyone, Mike would’ve learned that the consensus was that a blow up was long overdue.

Of course, Mike didn’t bother to ask questions he didn’t want the answer to. Particularly when he was privy to information that would definitely affect that consensus. Namely, that there’d already been a blow up. 

But maybe a second one was past due. 

Because while Mike had managed to keep his goddamn mouth shut every time some asshole comment wanted to break free, things between him and Ginny hadn’t improved. Ginny still shied away from any interaction with Mike and Mike still went stony and reticent whenever someone brought her up. Arguably, it was an improvement over where they’d been in the middle of spring training, but that wasn’t saying much. 

They needed to clear the air. 

Unfortunately, all Mike knew about clearing the air was throwing dynamite at the problem, ducking for cover, and waiting for the dust to settle. Hence the second blow up. 

Was it so wrong, though, that he didn’t want to do that again? Not that he’d approach this one anything other than 100% sober and 80% apologetic. No encroaching on personal space or saying things that he hadn’t gone over at least twice in his head first. Not that any of that meant all that much considering how easily Ginny’s mere presence seemed to eat away at his self control.

Mike told himself that it wasn’t like Ginny was entirely innocent. She’d thrown too many barbs of her own back in Arizona to claim that.

Somehow, it never made him feel better.

Still, it didn’t really matter how he felt, not when the bullshit between him and Baker was now officially a distraction to the team. (He hadn’t missed the muttering or the too-quick channel changes on clubhouse TVs any time he entered the room. He also hadn’t missed the fact that they’d lost three of their last five games. Games where they should’ve at least put up a decent showing rather than doing their best Bad News Bears impressions—before Matthau whipped them all into shape. They were on a slippery slope back to where they’d been at the beginning of the season.)

Which was why Mike cornered Ginny in the trainer’s room. 

Usually, she came in, got her arm wrap, and went back to her cubby to ice in peace. Not today, though. 

Mike jerked his head at the intern on duty, who was slower to get out than anyone would’ve been last season. The wary glance between pitcher and catcher told Mike exactly why. Still, the kid left without saying anything, pulling the door closed behind him.

He sighed. 

Ginny just shifted her weight between her feet, the only tell as to how uncomfortable she was right now. Otherwise, she was inscrutable. She stared at him with that carefully blank face, the Baker Bot out in full force. 

Mike fucking hated it. She couldn’t do him the decency of giving him something? Anger or hurt or sadness? Hell, he’d even take hatred at this point, even though he knew the sight of Ginny Baker’s unadulterated loathing directed at him would probably shred his heart. 

Whatever was left of it, anyway.

“I—” He shook his head and cleared his throat. “I wanted to apologize.”

“For what,” she returned, flat. 

Clearly, it wasn’t a brush off of his apology. She wanted specifics.

“For the way I’ve treated you. In Arizona. And before that even. There was a lot of other shit going on”—he and Rachel trying and mostly failing to make it work, the three separate sports therapists he’d seen in an effort to get one to tell him he wasn’t falling apart at the seams, not to mention the feelings that he allowed to implode—”and I took my frustration with that out on you, which wasn’t fair.”

She snorted and Mike had to remind himself that she was well within her right to be pissed. She was well within her right to tell him to fuck off and go straight to Deadspin about what a misogynistic asshole Mike Lawson was.

“Not fair? You think that’s the problem here?” she scoffed, cradling her right arm against her stomach like it was still too weak to hang on its own. It didn’t seem to cut her anger any, though. Ginny barreled on, letting loose some of her frustrations. They’d clearly been bottled up. “If I waited around for fair, I’d still be stuck in Tarboro, wishing someone would give me a chance. Don’t tell me you’re sorry because you weren’t being fair.”

He blew out a breath through his nose, arms coming up to cross over his chest. “Well, why don’t you tell me what I should be apologizing for, then.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Mike remembered the last time he said something similar. Probably a good idea not to think about his wife leaving him right now, though. 

Ginny just stared at him. Like she couldn’t quite believe what had just come out of his mouth. Mike stared back. Her mouth hardened, jaw clenching. 

“Fine. You should just apologize for being a dick. Not for being unfair. Because while it was and I still have no idea what the hell was wrong with you all of spring training, I’m used to unfair. I wasn’t used to you being such a fucking bully.”

He winced at the past tense. She hadn’t been used to it, but now she was.

At the same time, she didn’t ask for an apology for the kiss. Mike wasn’t sure if she just wanted to forget it even happened or didn’t want to push her luck. 

“I am sorry, Baker,” he said, looking her right in the eyes. Christ, he couldn’t even remember the last time they’d had this kind of eye contact. One of them was always looking away. Usually Ginny. “For all of it. You didn’t deserve any of my bullshit and the fact that you’re still willing to play on the same field as me, let alone for the same team, is a fucking miracle.”

He watched her lips quiver, like she wanted to smile, but wouldn’t let herself.

Mike pushed on. “I don’t need you to forgive me right away. I know it’s gonna take time, but I don’t have that much left. Not with the team, anyway. And the team needs to present a united front if we wanna make a run at a pennant this year. We need to be on the same side.”

Ginny’s eyes dropped from his, uncertainty clouding her face. 

Shit! He’d been so close. Mike scrambled for something, anything, to set her mind at ease, but Ginny deflated, nearly curling in on herself protectively. Doing her best to keep him out of her space. 

Her space. 

Jesus, how hadn’t he figured? 

“‘M not gonna kiss you again,” he murmured, voice low to keep the busybodies no doubt eavesdropping in the hall from overhearing. What was it about a closed door that invited such curiosity from a bunch of grown men? He didn’t mind them hearing everything else, but this was between him and her. Ginny’s gaze cut straight back to his, surprise etched over her features. He guessed it was something of a surprise that he could still read her so well. “So can we just go back to being teammates?”

Of course, that assumed they’d ever been just teammates, but Mike couldn’t take walking around with this pit of bile swirling inside him anymore; it was eating away at him. And he definitely couldn’t take ESPN talking about it like it was news worth sharing.

“You’re not?” she asked, brow wrinkled in what had to be suspicion, lips tugged into a contemplative frown.

“No,” he replied, even though it killed him that he’d never know what it was like to kiss her when she actually wanted him to. “Learned my lesson.”

Ginny was still frowning as she nodded, slow and more than a little unsure. “Teammates,” she finally agreed, her tone guarded.

Mike didn’t care. 

It was better than what he’d had to start the day.

July 

It was no surprise that Ginny was selected to her second All Star squad in her second season. Even though the Padres had toiled to pull themselves out of the hole they’d dug at the beginning of the season, Ginny’d had mostly solid starts from the beginning, her ERA significantly lower than what it’d been this time last year. 

What was the surprise, though, was the fact that Mike was also selected. To both the squad and the Home Run Derby team. 

(What could he say? Facing down retirement and the antipathy if not outright hostility of his teammates had lit a fire under his ass.)

Upon hearing the news, Mike texted Ginny: Congrats, All Star. Drinks? I’m buying.

When his phone started buzzing in his hand, before he even got a chance to slide it back into his pocket, Mike took a second to stare at the “Ginny Baker” displayed on the screen. 

The past month, he had put a lot of effort into being teammates and friends—just friends—with Ginny. He was constantly aware of the need to check himself, keep from falling even deeper into his feelings for her. If he was also aware of how different this all was from last season, Mike figured that was the difference between knowing he’d caught feelings and being blindsided by them.

But he wanted her friendship, the easy camaraderie they’d once had, almost more than he wanted to kiss her again. And Mike fucking dreamed about kissing Ginny again. He knew that wasn’t happening, though.

Friends it was.

So, they’d chatted a few times on the phone, about easy things, like Mike coming in late to the clubhouse or the new and unique Ginnsanity posters he’d managed to pick out during a game. Nothing like their late night talks from last season, though, where conversation flowed so easily, a natural extension of their rapport on the field. (If he lived in hope that some day they’d make it back there, Mike played that pretty close to the chest.)

He accepted the call. 

“What’s on your mind, Baker?” he drawled, spinning his keyring around his finger as he walked out the door. If she didn’t want to get drinks, she would’ve just texted him that. There was something else weighing on her.

“Drinks are good,” she started, only a little hesitant. Still, Mike could practically picture her pacing her room, tugging on her lip the way she did when she considered a problem. But then the reason for that hesitance became clear when she asked, “Just us?”

Every so often, they ran up against the slowly healing wounds of their past and things got a little awkward. Neither was all that eager to verbalize any more of their feelings, which made those awkward patches even harder to navigate.

"There another All Star on the team I’m unaware of?”

The silence before she replied, “No,” was longer than the question probably deserved.

Mike sighed. “Listen. Why don’t you save whatever’s eating at you for when I can look you in the eye and tell you you’re overthinking this, okay?”

Ginny huffed but didn’t disagree. “I pick the place, though,” she bargained, needing to win something in this conversation.

“Yeah, fine. Send me the address.”

When Mike walked into the shitty dive bar all the fucking way in El Cajon—which, he really did not want to know who’d been bringing Ginny Baker to shitty dives in El Cajon—he realized he maybe should have questioned why she wanted to meet here before this. 

Because it was pretty clear from the number of empties surrounding her, Ginny’d been here awhile. Since before he’d even sent her the message, probably.

Still, Mike made his way over to her seat at the bar, the soles of his boots sticking unpleasantly to the floor, and sat beside her. Ginny didn’t look up from where she was glowering ferociously at her mostly empty bottle of beer. 

“Who pissed in your corn flakes?” Mike asked, signaling the bartender for another round. He wasn’t starting tomorrow and neither was she, so he didn’t see the harm. Besides, it was rare enough to see Ginny so visibly and obviously bent out of shape. She deserved a little indulgence when it happened.

“Me.”

“That seems avoidable,” he observed easily. It wasn’t that he thought he could cajole her out of her bad mood, but it wasn’t like it’d hurt to try. 

Ginny turned to face him, eyes remarkably clear for the amount of beer she’d put away. Then again, there was also probably a Double-Double and fries in her stomach, soaking up most of the alcohol. The woman couldn’t resist her burgers.

“I’m a fraud,” she said plainly.

Equally plain, and vividly recalling the last time he had this conversation with her, he replied, “You’re not a fraud.”

“I feel like one.”

“Well, I feel like I’ve got another two years left in my knees, but that doesn’t make it true.”

Ginny’s lips pursed in a little pout, so Mike looked away. Thankfully, the bartender chose that moment to return with their drinks, so it even seemed natural. 

“I shouldn’t be an All Star,” she tried again. “I’ve got the worst ERA in the lineup—”

“You’re like a run and a half off—”

“—and there’s no way this isn’t just another publicity stunt by the league. I wonder what hashtag they used this year.”

Mike wasn’t used to Ginny sounding quite so bitter. That was his thing. Even when they’d been at each other’s throats, she’d mostly reacted, lashing out because he pushed and prodded until she had to. Well, if she’d learned it from him, she couldn’t ask for a better teacher.

Still, it wasn’t a good look on her.

Turning on his stool, Mike did his best to reassure her. “That’s not—”

“Please,” she spat, cutting him off. “I know I’m just Eddie Gaedel around here.”

Well, at least she’s given up the martyr routine.

Mike didn’t wince at the thought, but he was glad he’d managed to keep it stuffed behind his teeth. That was the kind of shit that got him here in the first place. Those jabs were coming less frequently, now, as they navigated their way slowly towards a tentative friendship, but Mike was all too aware that one poorly timed joke or backhanded compliment could unravel the fragile truce they’d built.

He did wince wondering if she’d somehow heard what he’d said about her that first start, more than a year ago. He doubted anyone’d blabbed to her, but it was so specific. Pushing down the guilt, he eyed her, wondering if this self-doubt was always simmering beneath the surface of Ginny Baker. She was so good at hiding it most of the time.

“You’ve made it an entire year, Baker. You know how hard that is? And you came back from an injury. You’re the real deal, not just some publicity stunt to sell more tickets.”

She made a disbelieving sound in the back of her throat and picked discontentedly at the label on her beer.

“Maybe, but it’s not like anyone takes me seriously.”

“You made this squad on your own merit, not ‘cause MLB pulled some strings. How much more seriously do you want people to take you? You’re a fucking All Star for Christ’s sake.” 

“I won the popular vote because people know my name, not because I actually deserve to be an All Star.”

Mike frowned. 

“You know I won the popular vote like three times, right?”

An acidic smile tugged at her mouth and it turned Mike’s stomach. Christ, he hated seeing her unhappy. 

“Yeah. Just no one ever told you that you’d be a better asset to your team waiting in the locker room on your knees, mouth open,” she muttered, hunching sullenly over her drink.

Mike burned. Burned with shame that anything he’d ever said or done made Ginny think he came even close to thinking that of her. And burned with rage that some shithead had the nerve to tell her that and still managed to walk away with the use of all four limbs.

“Who the fuck said that to you?” he demanded, ready to shove off his stool, out of the bar, and into the early evening to track down the son of a bitch.

Ginny just shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it fucking matters! Who the fuck thought they had the right to spew that kind of bullshit at you?”

She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, one brow raised, and Mike wilted a little. He tried to tell himself that his bullshit had been different. Clearly, it hadn’t been different enough. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she repeated, taking a slug from her beer and wrinkling her nose. Mike knew why she drank it, despite hating the taste, but he wished she didn’t feel like she had to. “It’s not like I believe it, but it’s hard to shake off the fact that other people do.”

“The people who matter don’t.” 

Ginny finally turned to look at him full in the face. There was too much doubt in her wide, dark eyes. 

“They don’t,” he pressed, leaning an elbow on the bar to keep from leaning into her space. That wasn’t what she needed. Or wanted. “Blip and Ev don’t. The rest of the team doesn’t. Neither does Al or the coaching staff. Or Oscar and the front office.”

“And what about you?” 

Mike tried to shake off the way her husky murmur made his heart begin to pound and tried to focus on the fact that his opinion mattered again. That was the win. Especially since nothing was ever going to happen about the way almost everything about Ginny made his heart pound.

He thought about brushing it off, responding with a joke, like this didn’t mean the fucking world to him. But the uncertainty and hesitance on Ginny’s face convinced him otherwise. 

“I don’t think that either.”

She sniffed, neither unimpressed nor looking like tears were imminent. Sometimes a sniff was just a sniff. 

“Now that your pity party’s over—” Ginny laughed at that, taken aback but not mad. “—can we get outta here?” 

“Yeah, old man. It’s getting close to your bedtime isn’t it?” she teased and Mike struggled not to light up. Fuck he’d missed this. 

“You’d need the energy too if you had to drive all the way to El Cajon to give your pitcher a pep talk.”

Her smile this time was a little softer, but it hit him just as hard. 

“Thanks for coming,” she said, fishing her phone out of her pocket. “You can go, I’ll just wait for my car to get here.”

“Nah, c’mon. I’ll take you.”

Someday soon—he fucking hoped—she’d stop looking quite so wary when he offered up these meaningless favors: a piece of gum, running hitters, a spot to sit, a bit of advice. She’d stop looking at him like she expected him to spit at her, not that he didn’t deserve the wary caution. He understood that reforming their friendship would be harder, more work than falling into it in the first place had been, but he would wait her out if it meant getting back to what they had been before he fucked it all up. He could be patient.

For Ginny, he was coming to realize, he could do a lot of things.

August

“Lawson,” Ginny called from across the clubhouse, “you coming out with us?”

He hesitated. 

On the one hand, the team had just surged ahead in the standings, steadily clawing their way up to a Wild Card spot. If anything deserved a celebration, it was this. 

And, personally, he was tempted to agree because he finally felt like his teammates actually wanted him to come. The Padres had come back around on Mike Lawson, a development that certainly didn’t hinder their newfound success on the field. 

He should’ve known that Ginny’d be the key to winning back the rest of the team. Once they seemed satisfied that pitcher and catcher had buried the hatchet, Mike found that he was no longer the least popular guy in the clubhouse. It’d take time to fully rebuild some of those friendships, especially with Blip, but finally, Mike was sure that he actually could.

On the other hand, and more pressingly, Mike wasn’t sure it was a good idea to spend the evening with a Ginny Baker flushed with victory and riding a post-win high. Even if they’d spend that evening surrounded by the rest of their teammates. It seemed like a dangerous combination, and one he’d been trying to keep away from lately.

It was hard enough to remember that Ginny didn’t want him when they were fighting. When they were actually getting along? Forget about it.

Mike would love to deny that he was still hoping for Ginny to change her mind. Deny that his continued good behavior was at least partially inspired by the possibility that he could convince her to want him the way he still wanted her. Deny that he wanted the new ease to their friendship to be an indicator that the latent attraction Ginny’d felt for him last year was deepening into something more. He wanted to deny it all because there was no way any of that would come to pass. 

These days, though, he was trying to keep his lies less potentially destructive. 

At his pause, her eyes narrowed and her chin lifted stubbornly. “You’re coming,” she decreed. “Captain has to come out with the team, right guys?”

The agreement that went around the room was less half-hearted than it would’ve been at the beginning of the season, which was something. 

Still, though, Mike hesitated. 

Ginny’s jaw set, and before she could tear into him, he caved. 

“Fine, Baker!” he huffed, snatching his bag off his chair. “You don’t have to beg!”

“I don’t beg!”

She looked so scandalized, mouth agape but still somehow grinning, Mike couldn’t help but snort and shake his head. The rest of the team started to shuffle out into the bowels of Petco Park, but Ginny waited for him, her fingers curled around the strap of her backpack. 

“I’m sorry,” he drawled as he drew even with her, itching to throw an arm around her shoulders the way he would’ve this time last year. She fell into step with him anyway, which would have to be good enough. “What was that big-eyed puppy impression you were doing the other day when I wouldn’t give you my lunch? Seemed an awful lot like begging...”

Ginny scoffed. “Did you just compare me to a dog?”

Mike thought it over and decided to go with it. “I haven’t seen something so pathetic since Jedi used to beg for dinner scraps.”

“You did not just compare me to your dead dog!” she laughed, elbowing him hard in the ribs. 

“Jesus, Baker! Watch where you put those things!”

“You deserved it!” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he agreed, privately thinking that a few cheap shots were well worth Ginny laughing with him again.

They managed an easy back and forth all the way to the player’s lot, where Mike headed for his truck, figuring he’d just follow the line of Padres to whatever club or bar was hosting tonight’s outing and Ginny would ride with Blip or, God forbid, Livan. Either way, he could take the time in the car to remind himself that he and Ginny were just friends, and he was fucking lucky to have that. He wouldn’t contemplate heading home instead, knowing she and the rest of the team would end up giving him shit all night, blowing up his phone to the point where he might as well just be with them. 

He slung himself up into the driver’s seat and loosed a long breath, closing his eyes. In the quiet, he told himself, Just get through this.

That peace was shattered by someone insistently pulling at the passenger’s side door, apparently annoyed at being locked out. 

Before he even opened his eyes to see who it was, Mike was reaching to unlock the door. His head lolled to the side and he forced himself to face reality just in time for Ginny to jerk open the door and climb inside.

“Were you planning on leaving me here?” she asked, suspicious but not serious.

“I thought about it,” he replied, not mentioning that he hadn’t even considered she’d want to ride with him. Not when she could have her pick of chauffeurs. 

“Rude, Lawson. You’re rude.”

“And yet you’re still friends with me.”

She tossed him a quick smile, no hesitation and Mike wondered if he’d ever stop sagging in relief when she did that: didn’t question their friendship. 

Bag settled in the footwell, where Ginny’s pristine Nikes were meant to go, she propped her feet on the dashboard instead, making herself at home. Mike cut her a quick glance out of the side of his eyes as he pulled out of the spot and followed Salvamini onto the San Diego streets, but Ginny ignored him. Instead, she picked up their conversation where they’d left it: Desert Island Movies.

Mike was laughing at Ginny’s latest pick (while he’d never seen the Josie and the Pussycats movie, he felt confident in saying it wasn’t Desert Island material) when the turn he took blew him straight into a bout of déjà vu. 

A rumbling sense of intuitive dread crept into his stomach at the next. 

“Where’d you say we’re going?”

She shrugged, fiddling with the radio. “I don’t know. I didn’t pick. Livan said he knew somewhere.”

Mike nodded, but as they neared their destination, the pit in his stomach opened up, ready to swallow the ease he’d fought and scrapped for with Ginny whole. 

He pulled into a spot on the street behind Salvi’s minivan, threw the car into park, and couldn’t quite hold in his disbelieving scoff of laughter. 

Fucking Livan.

“I didn’t pick it,” Ginny repeated, staring hollowly with Mike at the familiar building. 

Boardner’s.

Mike bit back his sigh. “I know.”

“You don’t think they...” 

She didn’t have to finish the thought for Mike to know what she meant.

“No. I don’t think they know.”

A slightly manic spurt of laughter burbled out of Ginny’s mouth. “So this is just some coincidence?”

“Yeah.” 

“It can’t be,” she argued, voice going a little high as she let panic creep in. “It means something. It was this time last year—”

“Hey,” he murmured, reaching out without thinking to hold her hand. It was so rare that he let himself touch her, Mike wanted to revel in the feel of her warm, dry skin against his, but he focused on the matter before them. “You said you didn’t want to talk about it, and we don’t have to. It’s your call, I’ll follow it.”

She looked at him, chest heaving a little as she struggled to wrangle her breathing into its regular rhythm. When it settled, she asked, “You’ll follow my call?”

“That’s all I’m trying to do.”

For a second, a flicker of confusion passed over her face, but it was gone by the time Mike blinked. In its place was frowning comprehension. 

That she hadn’t realized he’d tried to be better for her and not just the sake of team dynamics was pretty fucking gutting, but better late than never. Mike offered her a half-hearted grin which she returned, equally unsure. 

“You ready to go in?”

Ginny looked back to the bar and blew out a long breath, exhaling her discomfort and the memories of last year. Finally, she shook out her shoulders, settling them straight and even over her spine. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Mike’s grin brightened. How couldn’t it in the face of Ginny’s strength and composure? 

When she didn’t move to open the car door, though, he let himself tease her, just a little. 

“All right, then. I’d hate to leave your adoring fans waiting.”

She threw him an exasperated glance, but at last climbed out of the SUV and headed for bar (her biggest fan right on her heels).

September

As was becoming habit lately, Mike was the last one left in the Padres clubhouse at the end of the night. Tomorrow, they’d play their last game of the regular season. Two days later, they’d go into the first Wild Card game for the Padres in more than five years. 

He was doing his best to soak everything in, commit it all to memory. Even the slightly stale scent of sweat and dirty socks. 

“Did you fall asleep again?”

Mike cracked open an eye to see Ginny staring down at him in her post-game uniform of leggings and a workout jacket, fond smile on her face. 

“You find me sleeping one time,” he muttered, leaning forward and scrubbing a hand over his face to keep himself from staring.

“It was way more than once,” she responded, flopping into Blip’s empty chair and spinning idly. Mike could feel her studying him, but couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge it. Gently, she asked, “You ready for tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “I guess there’s not too much I can fuck up with one day left.” 

“Not as long as they keep Salvi out at first.”

Mike ignored the joke, feeling too close to nostalgic and weepy to appreciate it. “It’s a goddamn miracle I made it this far.”

Ginny hummed and nodded. “Your knees?”

He shook his head, though she wasn’t wrong. “I’m not good at just having. There’s something about me that makes it impossible to just let things be good.”

“That’s bullshit,” she returned, entirely and suddenly unsympathetic.

“Real nice, Baker.”

“It is!” she defended, leaning forward in her chair, so close their knees nearly touched. Mike sat back, arms crossed over his chest like he was annoyed, but really just needing space. 

Once he was retired, he’d have all the space he wanted. 

It wasn’t a comforting thought.

“You’ve had sixteen years in the majors without imploding, Mike. You’re the captain of this team and have the respect of everyone who’s ever played with you. What’s that if not letting things be good?”

“Right,” he huffed, pushing to his feet to pace. “Those same sixteen years where I let my personal life go to shit more times than I can count? Including my wife leaving me twice and blowing that respect you say I’ve got out of the water when I tried to abandon my team over—”

He shut the hell up. 

“Over what?” Ginny murmured, though the undercurrent of steel was nothing to laugh at. It wasn’t something he could easily lie to, either.

He didn’t.

“Over something I let get to me and affect the team too long.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?” 

“What else should we call it?” he demanded roughly, looking away.

“Maybe the worst six weeks of my entire life?”

“You got over it just fine,” he said, exhausted and wishing he hadn’t walked straight into this. 

“I got over it?” she repeated, disbelief coloring each word. Mike didn’t have anything to say to that. Ginny did, though, standing up, too. “Do you know how fucking heartbroken I was in Arizona? It was like you hated me, Mike, and I had no idea what I’d done!”

“You didn’t do anything and I definitely didn’t hate you,” he sighed, pained that she thought that, but also unwilling to dig deeper. 

“It felt like it!”

“What do you want me to say?” he bit out, struggling not to raise his voice, but frustrated beyond hell. 

The only reason he’d managed not to lose it all season was by burying the truth of his feelings, their breadth and startling depth, way down deep. He couldn’t believe Ginny wanted the truth now, with one game left in the regular season. They’d made it this far. Why ruin everything they’d gotten back now?

“Start with the truth!”

“No.”

“Why?” she demanded, shaking with her anger. 

“Because I already know how this is gonna play out, and forgive me if I’m not that eager to go back to not talking to you.”

“Oh, you know how this is gonna play out?” Ginny mimicked with a sneer.

“I’ve got a pretty good fucking idea,” he spat back. “You made yourself very clear.”

“How could I have made myself clear when I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about?”

Mike snorted, which she did not seem to appreciate. At all. 

“What the fuck was that? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Mike—”

“You said it was a mistake,” he cut her off, and she fell silent at his words. “When I— When I kissed you, you said it was a mistake.”

Ginny stared at him, for once at a loss for words. 

Mike, on the other hand, couldn’t keep the words down any longer. 

“It was a fucking mistake. I was drunk and pissed and I never should’ve kissed you. Not because I was out of my mind with jealousy—had been ever since I found out about your date with the billionaire—and desperate to deny the fact that I’d already ruined everything there was between us. I shouldn’t’ve kissed you. Not like that.”

Ginny swallowed, digesting his words. Just when he was about to turn away, leave this conversation on a higher note than he was sure it would go if he continued, her voice stopped him. 

“Then how?”

She stared up at him, lips slightly parted and looking so perfectly kissable that it was Mike’s turn to be at a loss. Which seemed to suit Ginny fine. 

“How should you have kissed me, Mike?" She took a step toward him, eyes trained on his face. “If you shouldn’t’ve been drunk or jealous or desperate, tell me how you should’ve kissed me.”

Ginny was so close. It would be so easy to reach out and tuck that stray curl behind her ear. So easy to set his hands on her waist and wait for hers to find their own holds on him. So easy to duck down and press the kiss she seemed to be asking for against her waiting mouth. 

So easy. 

But a mistake.

“I should’ve waited,” he answered. The way Ginny rocked away from him told Mike that she hadn’t been expecting that. “I should’ve waited until we weren’t teammates. Until I wasn’t in the game. Anything else would’ve been unfair to you.”

When Ginny finally managed to come up with a response, she seemed torn between a frown and a smile. Her lips turned down, but her dimples still dotted her cheeks. “I told you I don’t care about fair.”

“You might not, but I do.”

Her eyes closed at that, a rueful smile overtaking the frown. “You know, I thought you were such an asshole when we first met.”

Mike startled back at that, a shocked laugh leaving his lips. Ginny shook her head, gazing up at him, head tilted to the side like she was puzzling him out. 

“And you are. You definitely can be an asshole when you feel like it, but you’re something else, too. You’re sweet and strong and entirely too hard on yourself. I do forgive you. Because I know that even though I don’t understand, not all the way at least, what made you act like that in Arizona, I can see how hard you’re trying to put things right.”

“I am,” he breathed, hardly capable of believing that Ginny was really going to forgive him. 

She nodded and Mike nearly sagged at how the simple gesture put him at ease. It was suddenly so much easier to breathe, a weight lifted from his shoulders that he’d gotten too accustomed to. 

“I don’t know if I agree that any kiss you give me before you’re retired would be a mistake,” she said, which Mike still couldn’t get over. He’d spent so much time these past few months convincing himself that Ginny hadn’t ever wanted him at all. Finding out she did, she does, was maybe more than he could process at the moment. “But I can see your point. You said you’d follow my calls, but—”

As she backed away from him, heading for the clubhouse entrance, Ginny grinned. 

“Maybe it’s time I start following yours.”

Epilogue: October

Mike had never been one to believe that wanting something the most meant he was going to get it. There had been so many things in his life that he’d wanted—a regular family, a career for the history books, a happy marriage—a hell of a lot more than most people, but he hadn’t necessarily gotten them. 

No, wanting was only as good as the effort he was willing to put in to get it. 

But goddamn if he didn’t want this. 

It wasn’t the crowd screaming out his name or how inherently right he felt standing at the plate, bat in hand. 

It wasn’t that this was the biggest game in baseball and he was finally playing it. 

It wasn’t that this was the last game of his career and suddenly everything meant so much more. The last time he tarred his bat, the last time he got into it with an umpire; the last, the last, the last. 

It wasn’t even the pleasant pool of anticipation in his gut—such a change from the pit that’d been there all season—every time he caught sight of Ginny.

Or maybe it was. Maybe it was all of it swirled together to make for the most exhilarating nine innings of his life.

Nine perfect innings. Even if it wasn’t Ginny on the mound. And it wasn’t his foot to last touch home. There wasn’t a single pitch, hit, or play that Mike would change or trade. 

Not when it led to him mobbed in a crush of his teammates, voices hoarse as they shouted and screamed out their newest title: World Series Champions.

In the melee, somehow Mike found his way to Ginny’s side. Or maybe she found him or they found their way to each other. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t thrown a single pitch today, not when she threw her arms around his neck and laughed out her joy. Mike couldn’t help but echo it back, his own arms wrapping around her waist in a way that felt all too natural. 

There was no kiss. Not yet, at least. But one would come soon. And then another and hopefully a million more. A lifetime of kissing Ginny Baker lay before him.

Because even though his career had come to a close, that didn’t mean the rest of his life had, too. 

For once, he even believed it.

[fanforfanatic]

The Orange Thing

Relationship: Dean x Reader Rating: Mature-ish.  Warnings: attempted crack [emphasis on attempted!] A/N: This is for @trexrambling and @wheresthekillswitch #crackitbaby challenge! Special thank you to Jess for answering all of my questions and being an overall delight! 

~1.9k words

Read it on ao3

You’ve been living in the bunker long enough to have made a plethora of discoveries (actual magical beans, shrink ray (defective), home videos (exactly what it sounds like)). Not one captured your attention, your fascination, quite as much as the Orange Phenomenon.

If you’re honest with yourself, you might have gone a tad bit overboard. A smidge, really. But you couldn’t help your mind from straying from whatever task you had at hand, at any given time, to fantasize about the orange thing.

When you first come across it, it’s mostly an accident. Or at the very least a coincidence. Or maybe the Gods orchestrated the whole thing as a gift for all you’ve done for humanity. You don’t know. You don’t care. You’re too busy thinking about it.

It happens as you’re sitting at the table adjacent to the kitchen. You’ve got a sour expression on your face when Dean walks in with an empty mug.

“Have I told you recently how beautiful you are?” Dean snickers and your frown deepens. “What’s going on?”

You nod to the plated orange in front of you. “I started to peel it and I already have the stench sticking to my skin like it’s not planning on going anywhere this decade.”

“It’s twenty seventeen. Decade’s almost over at least.” Dean chuckles, because he thinks he’s funny- which he definitely is not-, and places his mug in the sink. “You hate it that bad?”

“Yes. Won’t go away no matter how many times I wash my hands. It distracts me during hunts!”

“Oh well, if it’s a safety hazard,” He intones dramatically with an easy smile on his face as he settles in front of you and drags the plate across the table top towards himself.

He foregoes the knife you’d started to use and digs into the slit you’d already made, tearing the skin of the fruit right off.

You watch his capable hands work the orange, flexing minutely as they remove the peel. You watch his ridiculously long fingers pluck the white string off and find your mouth watering. He pushes his thumbs between two wedges and splits the fruit open.

Immediately, juice oozes, coating his fingers. A drop runs down his palm and past his wrist. He catches it with his tongue somewhere on his forearm, licking all the way back up to erase the rivulet made by the errant dribble.

You swallow thickly, your eyes trained on the way Dean distractedly licks his lips to taste the traces of nectar and, in the foreground, on the way a large hand cups one half of the orange to free up his nimble fingers so they can remove the core stuck at the center of the other half. Then he’s separating a segment and extending his, still sticky with juice, hand to you in offering.

It takes you a solid moment to understand the gesture. Long enough that Dean frowns and parts his plump lips to ask if everything is alright. He thinks maybe something else was bothering you, other than your unpeeled orange.

You shakily accept the chunk before he really starts to worry, the tips of your fingers brushing against his slick ones. You bring the fruit to your mouth just as Dean brings his tacky fingers to his own and you all but choke on your own saliva.

He starts with his thumb, wrapping his lips around his first knuckle so that they form a perfect pout. He drags the digit out slowly, humming at the taste, and finally sucking on the pad of it.

“Sweet,” Dean says.

He doesn’t wait for an answer, maybe he isn’t expecting one, he just stick his tongue out and licks up the side of his pinky, flicking his tongue at the tip, then buries his ring finger in his mouth.

You do choke this time. Quietly. Dean doesn’t notice.

He makes his finger reappear but it’s a slowest magic trick in the history of time and space and you know, you know, that his tongue is lapping at it inside his mouth. He tears another wedge off the fruit and you think maybe he’s giving you time to recuperate, to gather your bearings or something sensible like that, but you’re wrong.

Dean wants to torture you.

He pulls half the fruit inside his mouth with a sharp suck and he has to know what he’s doing when he bites into it. Has to know it’s going to burst and drip and… He has to know what it’s doing to you. He seemingly doesn’t. Dean just pushes the half he’s bitten off to his cheek so his tongue can comfortably seek the wayward drop above his chin. He chews and looks at you, his brows knitting.

You realise you’ve still got your own slice poised at your lips and shove its entirety into your mouth in your haste to not appear like a goddamn freak. It doesn’t work because Dean chortles at your antics then licks the pillows he calls lips again, leaving them wet and glimmering.

Nothing has ever tasted quite as good as the orange in your mouth does just then. The way it bursts in your mouth is just… It’s good. You want more.

Dean hands you another piece then takes one for himself and on and on it goes. Has Dean always had such an oral fixation? Is this new? Have you never noticed? Does he lowkey want to be a pornstar? Does he look at himself eat oranges in the mirror when busty asian beauties just won’t do the trick? Would it be weird if you took a video?

Oh God.

You have the hots for Dean.

How long have you had the hots for Dean?

No. No. No. You have simply fallen victim to his objectively absurdly attractive looks. And this orange thing. This orange thing is definitely a capital-T Thing.

When Dean wipes his hands, each individual finger obscenely and his mouth with the paper towel you had brought to the table, you’re jealous of it. You’re jealous of a paper towel.

He leaves the kitchen, humming, like nothing’s happened. Like he hasn’t wrecked you. Obliterated you. He leaves you squirming and uncomfortable and absolutely confused.

 You keep buying oranges. For research. Are you having a slight crisis? Sure. Have you considered packing up and moving to one edge of the country, whichever is furthest from the bunker? Absolutely. Have you noticed how he chases the straws of his fast food soft drinks with his tongue, how he’ll hold it between perfect teeth to smile around it at you, how his lips look plusher than ever pursed around it as he sucks- YES. You’ve noticed. You keep buying oranges anyway. You’re not a damn idiot. You know what you’ve uncovered.

 Dean keeps peeling them for you, because he’s a pal. He doesn’t mind, really, only time he gets unprocessed food in his system, anyway. At least he didn’t mind. That was a few weeks ago.

Eventually, he minds.

“Just stop buying damn oranges, man. There are other fruit.” Man.

 You buy a crate of clementines. He glares at you and you glare at them because they don’t have the same effect. So what is the point?

 You let it die. You realise that you’re enabling a bad habit. That if you’re ever going to stop thinking about how Dean’s mouth would feel on you- anywhere on you- you’d have to stop watching him put it to work. If you’re going to stop imagining him peeling your clothes like he does oranges you need to stop watching his tan hands.

Months go by and you just about forget about the whole thing. You almost start to believe that it never really happened. Dean peeling oranges and featuring in hand porn? Doesn’t sound very real to you.

But then Dean plunks down in front of you at the kitchen table, where it all began, and produces two oranges.

“S’been a while,” He says.

“Yeah.” Your voice doesn’t waver.

The whole circus starts up again. Dean’s elegant fingers. His strong hands. Fruit disappearing into his mouth. Lips. Licking. Tongue. The languid trail of escaping juice.

You can’t handle it. It’s better than you remember. Better than that dream you had about it two weeks ago. You can’t handle it. You can’t.

Your hands slam down onto the table before you’ve really given your body approval for the movement. Dean freezes, his hand suspended in the air halfway to you. Your eye twitches involuntarily.

“You okay?”

“Am I okay?” You reiterate calmly. “Am I okay?” Less calmly. “NO. Dean. I’m not-” You make air quotes. “Okay. You know what else isn’t okay? You. You’re sick, you hear me? Pretending like you don’t know what you do to-”

“Woah woah, hey hey hey. You wanna run that by me again? Maybe dial down the crazy and amp up the making-sense.”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not playing anything. Dude, what’s wrong with you?” Dude.

“I’ll show you what’s wrong with me.” You threaten.

You reach across the table for the second orange and Dean only flinches a little at your suddenness. You squawk at the thick unyielding skin of the fruit and drop it back to the table. You march to the kitchen area to retrieve a knife that’s probably bigger than necessary. Dean doesn’t mention it. Dean is a smart man.

Back in your seat, you chop away the top and bottom of the orange, grunting all the while, then quarter it with shallow slices. You remove the peels, the whole process taking an absurd amount of time and taking away from the urgency of the point you’re trying to make.

Idly, you’re grateful that Dean is being patient. Idly, you’re also aware of how ludicrously you’re behaving.

Finally, you tear it into halves and it comes apart easily. You stare down at it, almost offended. It’s the driest orange you’ve ever laid eyes on. Driest citrus fruit you’ve ever laid eyes on. The universe is coming for you. It had gifted you with orange-eating-Dean and you took advantage, disrespected it and now you are shunned.

Your frustration peeks, you look Dean in the eyes and squeeze both halves of the orange in your hands while saying, “This is what’s wrong with you.”

His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline and it’s not like you can blame him, you’ve just crushes a now oozing orange in your hands like the goddamn Hulk.

No one can say you aren’t persistent because you push forward anyway and do what he’s been doing. His own perfectly crafted torture tactic. Only you don’t think you really do it justice. Your lips aren’t as pouty as his, your fingers not as slender as they probably should be, but you put in extra effort to make up for it. Licking and sucking your fingers mockingly, muttering between laps, “I’m Dean, ouh look at me, I’m the sex god of oranges, I have an oral fixation, it’s my ultimate weapon against the forces of evil which is why I’m always honing the skill. I-”

“First,” Dean interrupts you. “Shut up. Second, I have never done any of that. Are you saying I’ve been seducing you with oranges?”

“When you say it like that it sounds stupid.”

Dean’s eyes, you notice, are blown with lust. There’s a tense moment, where all is still. Except for the orange juice trickling down your arm.

You wonder if Dean will lick it for you.

Read it on ao3

[kimvtae]

Forelsket

Forelsket- Danish; “The euphoria of falling in love”

Summary: Jungkook’s sure about his feelings for you, but he isn’t sure of yours. Taehyung suggests he use a love potion on the off chance you may confess, and it’s all downhill from there. [Harry Potter au] Pairing: Jungkook x reader Word Count: 2,564 A/N: inspired by a late night conversation with @minsvga and @jungkxook about Jungkook as a Ravenclaw, possessing bits and pieces of traits from all four houses yet still not being brave enough to confront his feelings. This was written on a whim, and truthfully, Katie’s will make mine make way more sense.

In the beginning of Jungkook’s fifth year at Hogwarts, he likes to think he understands everything about the school. He’s been sent into the Forbidden Forest, (no longer terrifying, but the name was kept after the Great War, and honestly, he’d only gone in on a dare,) he’s broken his arm in a few Quidditch matches, used the Marauders Map to sneak his way into Hogsmead the year he forgot his permission slip. But try as he may, there are still a few things Jungkook can’t figure out.

Take, for example, the way Jungkook catches you glancing at him in the library, eyes glazed as if you were lost in thought, only to look away before it became obvious to any bystander that you were staring. Innocent enough to anyone else’s view, but it’s happened too many times for Jungkook to write off. Or the way you claim to hate Quidditch, only to show up to any game Jungkook played in, cheering for his house and never your own. Or three weeks ago, when Jungkook had postponed an essay until the night it was due and you’d showed up at the door to his common room with four coffees, his favorite snack, and your favorite blanket.

Jungkook was pretty sure he knew how he felt, but he couldn’t be sure how you felt.

Something ached in his chest every time he looked at you, his heart beating irregularly and too damn quickly whenever you laughed at one of his jokes. Your smile when Jungkook cornered you after a match, sweaty and high on adrenaline and the buzz of success, to hug you tightly. How easily you linked your fingers with Jungkook’s when the two of you walked down the corridors.

All of which could be interpreted platonically, and all of which Jungkook desperately did not want to be platonic. He should ask you, he knows, before he hexes another first year and lands another week of detention before the third month is up. Seokjin, his prefect best friend, has already turned a blind eye to two hexes, and Jungkook isn’t sure he has many more get out of jail free cards.

“Just tell her,” is the first thing any of his friends say when Jungkook sighs, because it’s always a telltale sigh when Jungkook’s been thinking about you.

“I can’t,” is always how Jungkook responds. Truthfully, it still felt like a fledgling friendship sometimes, despite how long he’s known you. Jungkook doesn’t want to mess anything up.

Tonight, Taehyung’s follow up, like most of the things he says, leaves Jungkook reeling. “Well, what if Y/N said it first?”

“What’re you suggesting, hyung?” They’re in the back corner of the library, Jungkook, Taehyung, and Jimin, books and quills spread across a table as they lie to themselves and say they’ll get their studying done. “I really don’t think she feels the same way. Why would she-?”

“Just use one of those love potions. If she doesn’t confess, then at least you’ll know how she’d act if she were in love with you.”

“Dude,” Jimin says, snatching Taehyung’s wand from his hand and making the smoke patterns Taehyung had been making disappear. “Those are like. Hella illegal.”

“Nuh.” Taehyung grins wickedly. “Law just passed in the last few years. Weak ones are completely legal so long as both partners consent to it.”

Jungkook wrinkles his nose. “Why would both parties agree to that?”

Jimin flushes, looking a little like a wounded animal. “Please don’t make us explain that to you, Kook.”

“Anyway,” Jungkook says, dragging out the word. He looks between his hyungs, confused, but that’s often how he feels around his friends. “Y/N would never consent to it, and then the experiment would be ruined because she would know about it and think me a freak and never want to be seen in public with me. I’ll have to go into hiding, change my name and dye my hair-”

“Relax,” Taehyung laughs, doubling over with the force of his chuckles. “We’re not telling you to assassinate the Head Master and bring back the Death Eaters. Y/N’s been on the receiving end of some of our pranks before, and she’s helped Jimin and I pull some-”

Jungkook interrupts, “Wait. When?”

“Remember when your hair kept changing color every time you sneezed?” Jimin asks, grinning.

“Yeah?”

“Y/N cast the spell nonverbally. She’s the only one you let touch your hair.”

“Oh my God.”

Taehyung snorts, sharing a knowing look with Jimin. “Yup. Think of it like another prank, Jungkookie. If she’s really pissed, Jimin and I will help her get back at you.”

“So I take the fall for everything?” Jungkook asks, deadpan.

“Now you’re getting it,” Taehyung winks.

“We can do it in the Slytherin commons,” Jimin says, smiling almost as widely as Taehyung. “Jungkook, you steal the vial from the potions cabinet and bring it to me. I’ll dilute it even further. And then we watch the fun unfold.”

Which is how Jungkook finds himself standing in potions class two days later, a vial of extra-diluted love potion slipped into the sleeves of his robe. He’s sweating even more than usual, unable to focus on the instructions for today’s lessons. On a good day, Jungkook is decent at potions. But on a day with Taehyung and Jimin sending weird hand signals across the room to just do it already! Jungkook was pretty useless.

You’re reading through the book again, underlining key ingredients and mixing them when Jungkook hands them over. Your hair is pulled back, the delicate curve of your cheek and pretty flush of your skin exposed to Jungkook and fuck he wants to do this now, but he also wants to jump out the window. Where are his Griffindor traits when he needs them?

“Kook?” You knock two knuckles against the side of Jungkook’s head, forcefully bringing him back to attention. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Y-Yeah,” Jungkook’s says weakly. “I’m good.”

“You sure? I can take you to the infirmary.”

Jungkook’s heart is about to burst right out of his chest, and the wide-eyed, completely sincere look you’re giving him isn’t helping at all. Your cheeks are flushed from whatever potion you’ve been working on- God; Jungkook doesn’t even know the damn assignment. He brushes the loose hairs away from your eyes with his free hand.

“I’m good, babe.”

“Whatever you say.”

Taehyung comes up behind you, slinging an arm over your shoulders and pouting exaggeratedly. Jungkook takes this as his cue. As you look away from Jungkook, Taehyung whines, “Y/N, Jimin said his ass is better than mine.”

“That’s because his is better, Tae,” you’re saying, laughing into Taehyung’s shoulder and Jungkook is definitely Not Jealous as he stirs the potion, slipping the vial from his sleeve and pouring the contents into the mix. The liquid inside goes from syrupy pink to a diluted purple, and Jungkook makes a face of horror. There’s no way you won’t notice the change.

“Uh, Y/N?” Jungkook says, holding his breath. You needed to be the one to smell the potion directly, and then Jungkook needed to be the first person you saw. And since the potion was so diluted, there was no room for error.

“Jungkook?” You’re at his side in an instant, looking into the cauldron and then to Jungkook’s face. “What did you add?” Jungkook reaches for the first bag he spots on the table. You groan, nudging him out of the way with your hip despite the size advantage he had. “Idiot. You just ruined the entire potion. We’re being graded on this.”

Leaning over the cauldron, you stir it gently, and Jungkook knows you’re looking for a way to salvage the situation. You take a deep breath of resignation and turn to face Jungkook.

And Jungkook waits.

“Do you think Tae and Jimin-hyung managed to get it right?” Jungkook suggests, after you spend a good five minutes staring at Jungkook’s cheek, bottom lip between your teeth.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, maybe, I think? Go ask, Jungkook. I’ll rat you out in an instant if we don’t do well on this.”

And Jungkook waits.

At dinner than night you join Jungkook at the Ravenclaw table, sandwiching yourself between Hoseok and Yoongi. Jimin and Taehyung were trying to start a food fight at the Slytherin table while Seokjin and Namjoon were pretending not to know anyone in the room.

“How’re you feeling, Y/N?” Jungkook asks halfway into dinner.

You laugh quietly. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that? You’re the one who cost us our potion. We have to redo it, you know.”

“Wait, shit. Really?”

“Yup,” you say, spearing a potato from Jungkook’s plate and popping it into your own mouth. “Tomorrow evening, after the last potions class. Don’t miss it, Jeon.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Jungkook gets a letter from you a few hours later while he’s studying in the common room, the letter floating in under the bottom of the door. Jungkook grins when he receives it and hurries to get the door opened, revealing you, dressed in your favorite pajamas and arms laden with snacks and two extra large coffees. You set up camp in the middle of the floor while Jungkook moves his notes. The blanket is close to the fire, and Jungkook knows it’s because you’re always a little cold.

“Exams are coming up,” you say, as if you’ve ever needed an excuse to seek Jungkook out. “Figured you could use a study partner.”

“Thanks,” Jungkook says, watching you yawn dramatically. On nights like these, Jungkook always asks why you bother spending your last couple hours awake with him on the floor. You claim it’s because the Ravenclaw common room is nicer than yours, but the way Jungkook catches you staring from across the room suggest ulterior motives.

Jungkook doesn’t make it through a chapter in his Dark Arts textbook before you’re shoving your papers aside and grabbing for his hand. “It’s cold, Jeon. Cuddle me?”

“I’m starting to think you only like me for my body heat.” Jungkook says, pretending to sound exasperated. He’s been here before with you, curling up in front of a fire. It’s a well-worn routine, the way Jungkook drapes his arms around your shoulders and pulls you close to his chest while you fidget to get comfortable. He gives you his arm for a makeshift pillow, knows his neck is going to ache in the morning, but finds that the flutter of your eyelashes against your cheek and the content sigh you let out more than make up for that.

“Took you long enough,” you whisper, pressing your cold toes against Jungkook’s calves.

Jungkook hisses. “Do you bathe in ice before you come over?”

“No, but I can start if it continues to annoy you so nicely.”

“You’re hilarious, Y/N.” Jungkook dances his fingers across your back, listening to the way your breathing begins to deepen and settle. He’s still waiting for the signs of the love potion to show; the glossy eyes, speaking in poetry, and feeling physically unable to leave the object of your affection, to name a few. Jungkook figures the dilution is making the potion work slower, so there’s no harm in speeding up the process. “Babe?” You hum. “Babe.”

“I’m awake, Jungkook.”

“Sounds fake but okay.”

Jungkook feels more than hears your laugh against his collarbone, and he smiles into your hair. You grumble, “What do you want, Jungkook?”

“Have you thought about dating someone?”

You stiffen in Jungkook’s hold. He instinctively stops moving his fingers, cursing himself and Jimin and Taehyung and every ghost that haunted these corridors that did not try to stop Jungkook from being such an idiot. Hell, Peeves had only encouraged Jungkook. He’s just about to apologize for asking and pretend he’s fallen asleep when you relax.

“Of course I’ve thought about it, Jungkook,” you say, lips moving over Jungkook’s collarbone. “But it’s a big responsibility- along with schoolwork- to take care of someone’s heart. To entrust your own to someone else.”

Jungkook can’t help but ask, “Is there someone you think would be worth it?”

“Yes,” you say with no hesitation. “But things are complicated, you know?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook agrees. His lips are still in your hair, brushing against your head with every word he says, and Jungkook wishes he had purpose to purposefully press his lips all over your body. He settles for what he can do- holds you even tighter in his arms. “Yeah, I know.”

“Hey, Y/N? Can I ask you something?”

“Sure, Kook.” You look up at Jungkook, sitting across the table, and smile. Loose hairs are falling into your eyes again, but from where he’s standing Jungkook can’t reach them.

The two of you are making up the potion he’d failed, this time without any love potions or distractions, just the quiet of the potions room and the Headmaster’s cat keeping watch on the front desk. Without his nervousness lighting his entire body on fire, Jungkook’s actually a pretty good lab partner. He estimates to be more than halfway through the lab.

By now, the potion Jungkook slipped into yesterday’s lab must have expired. Twenty-four hours had passed and he hadn’t seen one sign of out of place affection or adoration, and he figured he wouldn’t see any in the next couple days. He makes a note to kill Jimin this weekend.

Jungkook twirls his wand between his fingers, not looking away when he says, “How long does it usually take for a love potion to begin to work?”

“It’s instantaneous,” you say, chopping up a few leaves and dropping them into the cauldron. “As soon as someone sniffs or drinks a love potion, they become infatuated with the first person they lay eyes on.”

“Even if the potion’s been diluted?”

You look up again, blinking in confusion. “You can’t dilute love potions, Jungkook. They’re already strained to their essences to mimic the purest forms of love. Why do you ask?”

“No… No reason,” Jungkook mutters. Now that he thinks about it, he really can’t recall watching Jimin dilute the potion a few nights ago. He must have distorted Jungkook’s memories.

However… That meant you were under the effects of the love potion for the last day. Which meant you’d been acting as if you were in love with him, as if Jungkook were the sun of your days. But your behavior hadn’t been any different. There had been no difference in the way you spoke to or spent time with Jungkook, almost as if-

Jungkook chokes on his own inhale, coughing loudly and nearly falling off his chair. His chest was set to concave, his lungs about to burst because there was no way- right? There had to be some kind of mistake-

“Jungkook? Holy shit; Jungkook, are you okay?” Your hand is warm and solid on Jungkook’s back, tracing circles against his robes as he struggles to calm his breathing.

It feels as if he’s fighting a losing battle, but Jungkook glances at you, stares into your eyes and looks for the answers he should have seen sitting there this entire time. His lips turn up into a smile as soon as he catches his breath.

“Yeah,” Jungkook says, watches how your own expression melts into one of relief. You stroke your fingers through his hair, and Jungkook chuckles happily. “Yeah. I’m more than okay.”

[inkandpen24-blog]

Truth Between The Lines pt. 12

Pairing: James Potter x Reader 

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: None 

     It’s been two years since you’ve run away from home. You haven’t seen or spoken to your family in that time. When you’re not at school, you stay with Lily and her family. However, James usually visits with Sirius frequently if not every day. Somehow, you and your friends have made it to seventh year without too much trouble. Mixed emotions fill you about eventually having to leave Hogwarts. You still have a semester left but the end is near and you’re sure if you’re ready to say goodbye. An apartment is set aside for you and Lily when you graduate. Plans are set for the near future so there’s no uncertainty but you’ll miss the comfort and homelike atmosphere of Hogwarts. You’ll miss being a kid here. Arms wrap around your torso and a kiss is pressed to the skin of your neck. “Ready?” Smiling brightly, you spin in James’s arms “ready if you are.” He nods, interlocking your hands and escorting you out of the castle and towards the lake. “How long were you waiting?” “Not long, it was nice to have a moment to myself. It gave me time to think.” He grins and starts to walk back down the hill “what about?” “Many things, all at once” you reply with a mischievous look. “There they are” Peter shouts, causing your friends on the shore to look back at you. James releases your hand and starts to sprint down the remainder of the hill, aiming at Sirius. He prepares for the impact of when James reaches him and the two fall back onto the grass. You sit down next to Lily and she pulls you into a hug. Once you notice Remus sitting against the tree reading you ask him “whatcha reading?” As you always do with each book he begins. He holds up the cover for you to see without replying. “Les Misérables, how fitting” you comment, earning a chuckle from him. “You’ve read it?” He questions, his eyes locked on the pages. You hum a “yes”, laying on the grass and absorbing the sun’s rays. A body lands on you and you release a grunt. “What have you read?” James rolls off of you and onto the grass. “Les Misérables” you reply, closing your eyes to relax in the sun. James shuffles to your left but you remain in your peaceful position. “Hey Lils, what would you suppose this is?” Sirius asks and Lily huffs next to you “well don’t poke it! It could be alive you idiot!” You hear her get up and jog down the hill to him. The scene is quiet beside Lily giving a lesson to Peter and Sirius by the shore. A lovely spring day made up of the warm sun and a slight breeze is one of your favorite things in the world. Having fun on a classless Saturday with your friends on such a beautiful day is the perfect material for lifelong memories. “Sweetheart, can I ask you something?” You smile to yourself “sure.” You can hear James turn his head to face you but you’re too comfortable to open your eyes. “Do you remember Christmas two years ago and the talk we had that night?” “With you and Sirius or just you and me?” “You and me” he clarifies. “Yeah, of course” you reply readjusting your body a bit. “Do you recall what I asked you?” His words are dragged out as if he’s being cautious. You open your eyes and turn your head to meet his hazel ones. “You asked me many things” you joke, reliving the conversation in your memory. He grins “you’re right but there was a promise I made to you. A promise I swore to keep” he leads you along. A tad lost, you ask him to specify “what do you mean?” He reaches out to you and caresses your cheek lovingly. “Marry me” he mutters under his breath. Your eyes widen and your body flies up from the ground. Sitting up, you look down at James “what!” He sits up and relocates so that you’re sitting cross-legged, facing each other. “I'm asking you to marry me” he repeats and you can’t process what you’re hearing. You must be imagining all of this. “Marry you? Marriage… you want to… oh my… marry…” your breathing is becoming quicker and uneven. James slips his hand around yours “I know it’s overwhelming but I genuinely, more than anything, want to marry you.” Your vision blurs and tears of joy threaten to fall. “I do too but James, we’re eighteen! The war is at its peak! There are so many factors we must consider.” He isn’t fazed by your points and continues on optimistic. “So what if we’re eighteen? There are no rules saying when you can find the love of your life. We’ve talked about getting married, why not now? As for the war, it’s already had such an impact on our lives I refuse to willing give it power over how we live our lives. If the worst occurs, I don’t want my life to end without having the honor of being your husband first.” “James” you squeeze your eyes shut, lowering your head. The thought of losing him is too intolerable to even consider for you. He tucks his fingers under your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. He smiles as you happily as he reaches into pocket. Switching to hold your left hand, he pulls out an engagement ring. “You promised me once that if I ever asked you to marry me that you’d say “yes.” I hope that’s still the case and you uphold your promise or all of this will be very embarrassing” he laughs nervously, slipping the round flower-shaped diamond ring onto your finger. You cover your eyes with your hand as you cry silently. “Aw Honey,” he kisses your forehead, feeling bad for making you cry. You’re crying tears of joy but you can’t form the words to tell him. “Is that a yes?” You hum, lifting your head up and wiping the tears away to pull yourself together. “Yes,” you say directly to him, “yes, I’ll marry you.” His jaw drops in a wide grin as if he’s shocked. “Seriously?” You chuckle delighted “yes James, I will marry you.” He leaps up to his feet, pulling you with him. “Guys! Guys! Guys!” James frantically gathers everyone’s attention as you wipe up your face, laughing. “Just thought you all should know that I just proposed to (Y/N) and she said “yes!” Sirius drops the big stick he’s been poking the mystery object with, stunned. “She said yes?” James nods. “She said yes! Prongs and Ebony are getting married!” Sirius bolts up to you and knocks you and James to the ground. Lily squeals and grabs your left hand to examine the ring. “Merlin James! It’s gorgeous” she compliments, in awe of the sparkliness. Sirius sits back, allowing you and James to sit up. Peter congratulates you two and you send him a sweet smile “thank you, Peter.” Remus strolls over, taking the spot to your right. He holds out his hand and you place yours on it. His thumb runs over the ring as he studies it. “Are you sure you’re ready to be associated with this one forever?” he teases James with a smirk. “Are you sure you’re ready to me known as Mrs. Potter forever?” Sirius adds. You look over at James without hesitation “I’ve always been ready. I’ve been ready since the day we met.” “As have I” he replies and pecks your cheek. Each of them take turns looking at the ring and Lily is already making wedding plans. “This is gonna be the biggest news to hit Hogwarts in a long time” Sirius is over the moon about the engagement. You grip James’s hand, remembering someone very, very important who doesn’t know yet. James eyes you curiously and you remind him “we must tell McGonagall before someone else does!” His eyes widen, reaching the same level of urgency as you. He interlocks your fingers and yanks you up from the grass. You two start sprinting up the hill, “see you guys later,” you and James say in unison. Your friends laugh, watching you two running off to tell your favorite professor the good news.

   James knocks rapidly on McGonagall’s office door and she sounds irritable on the other side. “I’m coming! I’m coming! It’s Saturday, can’t you find something better-” she swings open the door and is surprised to see you. “Mr. Potter, Ms. Livingston, how can I help you?” James pretends to be aggravated, to trick McGonagall. He walks into her office without her permission first, rubbing his temples. “I need to vent to you, Minnie! Ms. Livingston here as pushed me too far! We must seek guidance!” He paces in front of her desk and you sit down in one of the chairs. “Mr. Potter, I said it a million times before, call me Professor! Plus, I’m not a counselor! Maybe seeking advice from Mr. Black would suit your situation better” she suggests, sitting in her chair. James dramatically tosses his head back with a groan. “Sirius won’t listen! She’s lost her mind, Minnie! I don’t know how I can go on in these conditions!” You force your smile down but James’s performance might get the best of you. She exhales and lowers her glasses on her nose. “What exactly has Ms. Livingston done that is so dreadful?” “You’ll never believe it!” He pretends to be emotional “she clearly wasn’t in her right mind when she did it!” McGonagall shakes her head “go on Mr. Potter, what has she done?” He clicks his tongue “ask my fiancé, I can’t bear to say it!” He turns his back to her, looking up at the tapestry on her wall. She eyes him puzzled, “you’re what?” She looks to you but James turns with a huff “fine! I’ll tell you! I asked (Y/N) to marry me fifteen minutes ago and she said “yes!” You and James wait with anticipation for her reaction. He takes the seat next to yours, once he's done with his little show. You take his hand and rest them in your lap. “You two are…” she gestures her quill at you and James, “you’re engaged?” You lift up your left hand and show her the ring. Her eyes gleamed with joy and pride. “Oh, well my heavens! How wonderful!” She clasped her hands together and walks around her desk to bring you into a hug. James then rises from his seat and she moves on to him. “I’m so happy for you two! You deserve it!” She holds onto each of your hands, teary a bit. “Such wonderful news!” You three share glances and she is so delighted. “It’s early but do you have any idea of when you’ll have the wedding?” You and James exchange a look and he says “whatever (Y/N) wants.” You smile at him “as soon as possible preferably. Most likely right after graduation, maybe July.” McGonagall covers her mouth and gasps “I can hardly wait!” James kisses the back of your hand “me either.” You’ll be counting down the five months until you can marry the man you love.